We All Fall Down
by Danae3
Summary: AU from HBP. The war has been going strong for 7 years, with no respite. This is a story of the Order. A brother who wants to protect his family. A twin trying to live his life. A spy struggling with honor. And a Boy Who Lived fighting to save the world.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Okay, okay, so the characters aren't mine. I just borrowed them. I promise. Yes, I was going to give them back. What? Well, no I didn't exactly ask. No, I don't think she knows I have them. Oh, please don't tell her! Look, if you don't tell, I'll let you play with them too!

_Defenseless under the night  
Our world in stupor lies;  
Yet, dotted everywhere,  
Ironic points of light  
Flash out wherever the Just  
Exchange their messages:  
May I, composed like them  
Of Eros and of dust,  
Beleaguered by the same  
Negation and despair,  
Show an affirming flame._

-W. H. Auden

"**September 1, 1939"**

* * *

Ten o'clock in the evening, an hour after the last of the shops in Diagon Alley had closed, leaving only proprietors to clean up and close the books for the night. This night, George Weasley was alone in this task, replacing items that had been picked up by customers and replaced on shelves across the shop when they found something they wanted more. It made inventory a pain, but gave him something to do while a charmed broom danced its way around the sales floor, collecting dust that had been carried in by the day's traffic.

It had been a slow day, as fewer and fewer people were venturing out of their homes since the attack on Hogwarts. Christmas was still far off, and a few weeks still existed before school began, bringing their most eager customers to spend their pocket money on supplies for pranks and practical jokes. Though little had happened in the last few weeks, business broke off suddenly as soon as night began to fall. No one could be too careful.

"Nowhere," the latest hit by the Weird Sisters came over the WWN, and George found himself singing along as he rebuilt a display of their edible products. He flipped a box of Ton-Tongue Taffies into the air, snatching it up a foot from the ground, his voice wavering and off-key, rang out with the lyrics.

"_We're going nowhere, a floundering youth. We've been falling forever, but can't break through. Scream! Scream! No need to tell me, I don't want your help. You can't save me anymore. I'll save myself!_"

As though cued by a twisted fate, the door to the shop exploded, throwing George, who had been standing near it, crashing into the long counter where transactions were completed. Dust and smoke filled the air as he raised himself, coughing into his arm, and turned toward the door, only to find himself faced by a wall of black cloaks.

Death Eaters!

His hand instantly went for his wand, but before it even brushed the wood, his only weapon was yanked from its hiding place and sailing through the air to be caught deftly in the waiting hand of the tallest of the Dark Lord's servants.

"No need for that," drawled a voice George didn't recognize. It was venomous and dangerous. "We're only here to talk." He motioned toward two of the larger thugs behind him who swooped down on George, slamming his much smaller struggling form facedown to the ground with both his arms pinioned in the small of his back. His head ached where it had struck the floor, but he ignored the pain. He knew he was going to be in for a lot more before the night was over. "Do you care to answer a few questions?"

"Not really," George spat back.

"My, my. I had rather thought you'd cooperate." George could almost imagine the sick smile slowly spreading across his face. "Ah, but this makes it much more enjoyable." He was released, but before he could even move, the Death Eater's wand was trained on him. "_Crucio!_"

George screamed.

* * *

Fred felt a chill travel up his spine as he hovered over the scrubbed wood table in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. He straightened, nearly dropping the silver pocketwatch he and George had designed. It was a portkey, created to work when the dial was pressed in rather than on a preset time at creation- an asset to spying where last minute getaways would be necessary when one had no wand.

"What is it?" Harry asked, seeing the strange look on the redhead's face.

"Nothing," he answered, though not looking as though he believed himself. "Just a chill."

"It _is_ cold in here," Tonks offered, rubbing her arms for affect.

Harry walked to the fireplace and threw another log on the already roaring flames.

"What time is it?" he asked, turning back to the table.

"Half past," Fred answered, now rubbing his own arms where goose bumps had begun to rise. "Everyone should be here soon."

"Where's George?" Tonks piped in.

"Closing the shop. He should be here in a few minutes."

* * *

George lay panting on the floor. His arms, bound behind his back, felt like they had been ripped out of his sockets. He'd never felt the Cruciatus at full strength before, and had never imagined it could be this painful. It felt as though every nerve in his body was screaming out.

And that was the third one.

"Who is the spy for the Order of the Phoenix?" the Death Eater asked lazily, squatting near George's head. "We know you and your brothers are in the Order."

"No." Was that his voice that sounded so shaky?

"No? You do know we'll kill you if you don't tell us what we want to know."

"… Kill me anyway."

"That may be the smartest thing I've ever heard out of a Weasley's mouth." He flicked his wand and George found himself flying sideways across the shop, crashing into the shelves that lined the east wall from floor to ceiling. Fire ripped through his right arm, taking the blow of his entire body, but a cry was ripped from his throat when the shelves collapsed, raining the heavy wood slabs down on him. He was thankful when he was knocked unconscious.

Unfortunately, it didn't last.

"Come now, Weasley, don't give up on me that easily," he drawled after George was enervated by one of his silent companions. George glared up at him, blood dripping down his face. He sighed dramatically. "Which one are you? Fred? Or George? Not that it matters," he finished with a wave of his hand. "I am curious, though, if, as twins, one of you can tell if the other is in trouble. For example, how long will it be before your brother shows up here to help you? I'm sure he can't take all of us." He motioned behind him elegantly, indicating the other Death Eaters. "You can save him the pain, though. Just tell us who the spy is."

"I don't know." He coughed hoarsely.

"That was the wrong answer, and I am beginning to tire of this game. I do, however, have a few young recruits who need to practice for themselves."

* * *

Fred fell heavily into his chair, a wave of dizziness washing over him, causing spots to dance before his eyes. He pressed the palms of his hands into the hollows of his eyes, attempting to push the vertigo out of his head, but it lingered still.

"You all right?" Ron, who had only just arrived from Hogwarts, watched his brother concernedly.

"Yeah," came the slow answer. "I think I'm coming down with something."

"Well, then, stick to that end of the table," Ron muttered. "Every time a sniffle goes around that school, I get it, and I don't want to get sick if I don't have to."

"Ron, you're all heart," Hermione snickered.

"No, I'm aches and chills and snot! I don't know how those little buggers are ever healthy! They're like walking germ factories!"

"Weasley, must you be so dramatic?" Snape drawled as he swept into the room, followed by Professor McGonagall.

"Why Snape," Ron returned sweetly, "I didn't know you developed a soft spot for your coughing, sneezing, runny-nosed first years."

Before Snape could answer back, he was silenced by Harry. The kitchen was full now.

"Is everyone here?" He asked, glancing around. "Where's Alden?"

"On duty," Shacklebolt answered. "I saw him just before I left."

"And Bill?"

"'E iz in Cairo," Fleur answered. "Gringotz beeznuz."

"Where is your twin?" Snape asked, now peering curiously at Fred, who had gone pale. His jaw clenched and unclenched as though he was now in pain.

"He's at the shop," Hermione answered for him. She laid her hand on Fred's face. "You're not warm. Maybe you should go lie down."

Fred nodded and began to rise, but suddenly he didn't seem to have the strength. He fell uneasily back into the chair, listing to the side as if he was about to slide right off onto the floor. Hermione stooped beside him to pull his arm over her shoulder and help him from the kitchen.

* * *

"He's not talking, Devinne," one of the Death Eaters was saying, looking down at the bloody mess that had once been a Weasley. George Weasley lay at his feet, bare-chested, his skin coated in a grimy coat of his own blood and bruises. His shoulder was black, and his right arm, still tied behind his back, hung a considerably distance from the shoulder. The body was breathing shallowly, but each exhalation sent forth more blood from his mouth. "Any more and he'll die before he can reveal anything."

"Then perhaps he should die." He pushed himself from the counter he had been leaning against and inspected the barely conscious victim. "You've done nicely, gentlemen. Well done."

"Sir?"

In answer, Devinne directed his wand at Weasley.

"Crucio!" He watched with interest as tremors ran through Weasley's body. A strangled cry escaped his bloodied lips, but in his current condition, there was little force behind it.

"No doubt his brother will return soon, probably with others. When they come, they should find nothing." He glanced down around the shop. "Destroy everything."

"What about him?" one of the stooges asked, staring down at the semi-conscious Order member struggling to breathe.

"Let him go down with the shop." He aimed his wand at the Death Eater who had failed to make Weasley talk. "Avada Kedavra." Watching the body go limp then fall ungracefully to the floor, he turned back to the others. "Burn it," he ordered. "Burn everything."

* * *

The kitchen table at Grimmauld Place, headquarters to the Order of the Phoenix, was quiet, as the three loudest members were not present: Chris Alden was on duty, Fred was lying in an upstairs bed, sick, and George had yet to show up for the meeting. The head of the table held no member, and had not since the death of Dumbledore six years earlier. Directly to the left of that empty seat sat Severus Snape, who sat somberly, his hands clasped before his face so his chin balanced on his thumbs, trying his utmost to appear calm, but knowing he was failing miserably to those who knew him well. He allowed his eyes a glance up at the clock.

"How long has it been?" Potter asked from across the table. Snape's eyes fell on him, glaring narrowly, though the rest of his weary body revolted at the act of aggression and sighed. Potter was no longer his student, though no less a headache.

Mostly.

"Thirty-six hours since he was summoned. Fourteen since his last contact. And two since he was supposed to have returned."

"How was he when he last contacted you?" Lupin asked.

"He's not at a bloody summer camp, Lupin. How do you think he was?"

"Did he say anything?" Lupin reiterated mildly.

"Only what I have already reported: he's found some new information, and is trying to get his hands on it." A murmur farther down the table drew his attention. "Do you have something to say, Moody?"

"I said, maybe he's visiting the dungeons with his father."

"Do you dare-?"

"Blood is thick in that family, Snape!"

"Alastor! Severus! Enough!" McGonagall cut in, but was ignored.

"I trust Draco with my life!"

"And that's not exactly worth much these days, now is it?"

The table jumped to its feet as both men, Auror and Death Eater, drew their wands.

"ENOUGH!"

Both men froze at Potter's voice.

"How are we supposed to be fighting Voldemort if we're too busy fighting each other?" he demanded, staring coldly at the two men before him. "Draco is a member of the Order, the same as we all are, who puts himself in constant danger whenever he is summoned. No member will be called into question, merely based on blood. And no Order member will threaten another Order member, _especially_ _not in my house_! Now," he said, lowering his voice to a normal tone again, "Snape, do you have anything else to report?"

"No," he answered, lowering his wand, but not sliding it back into his robes.

"Thank you."

Snape nodded, keeping his eyes on the young man before him. Potter had grown up since the war had escalated, losing much of his boyishness by the time he left school. But then, by the age of twenty-three, he had battled some of the worst the magical world had to offer, including the Dark Lord on more than one occasion.

And now, with Dumbledore dead, he was the unofficial leader of the Order, though it had taken him some time to finally step into that role. Regardless, the role suited him, as two very dangerous veterans of two Dark Wars stepped down at his fury.

Yes, Potter had definitely grown up.

* * *

In Diagon Alley, screams could be heard from Weasey's Wizarding Wheezes, but nobody ran to the aid of the tortured young owner. Too many were afraid for their own lives, their families' lives, the safety of their own shops. Many pulled down the shades of their small flats above their shops, huddling below the window in hopes that they would not draw the attention of the Death Eaters who were no doubt visiting the young Weasleys. It wasn't that they disliked the boy, whichever one he was, but that their own lives were more important.

A few men were poised near their doors, frozen in indecision while they were pulled back by wives or lovers who had also been awakened by the screams and feared that their men, who Merlin knows knew no better, might try to rescue the poor soul. Perhaps someone even alerted the Aurors what was happening, but none wandered out of doors to investigate.

The front door opened and the unmistakable shadows of Death Eaters fled into the street before disapparating with hardly a glance around. It was only then that others left their own homes, their eyes drawn upwards toward the sky where a great glittering skull spewed an emerald serpent. No one spoke.

But they screamed.

Flames erupted suddenly from the doors and windows of the targeted shop, singing the hair and bed clothes of those who had been drawn to check for life within the shop, or to view a body. Who knows what goes through the minds of people who can huddle in fear while another screams in pain?

None would admit as much later on.

Most only remembered the strangeness of the flames being sucked back within the shop, as though a dragon had merely sneezed flame without. They would recall the startling silence, the exchange of fearful glances with neighbors, the half-whispers that were never fully formed on their lips.

And the explosion spraying brick and wood and flame over them all.


	2. Chapter 2

George Weasley's name had been splashed over the fronts of newspapers for days following his death. Always, it was accompanied by pictures of him, always smiling or laughing, much as he had been remembered in life; pictures of the shop destroyed under the light of the Dark Mark, and details about the pureblood family that had lost so many members during this dark time. Mention was always made of Molly and Arthur, who had been murdered in their home some six years earlier just after pushing their two youngest children, still students at Hogwarts, through the Floo connection. Nearly as often, Charlie's name was found in the articles, fresh with new suspicions that his death in the dragon fields of Romania had not been as accidental as was reported nearly four years ago.

But in a few weeks, as was wont to happen, the Weasley name faded from print once more, as more grotesque crimes were reported, families were murdered, buildings destroyed. In a twisted sense, living continued, though there was very little life left in wizarding London. In fact, fear had come to control the lives of the Magical all over Britain. Distrust prevailed, and suspicion was the rule.

And so it was, eight and a half months after the explosion in Diagon Alley, that when a bundle of black robes had appeared in the street there as though dropped from the sky, that none came forward to investigate. They stood fearfully within the protective shops watching and whispering of what they had seen, where it had come from, and who it could be, for few had missed that it was a body. A hand, a foot, and a mass of dirty brown hair could be seen peeking from beneath the robes. They watched in solemn silence as a pair of Aurors neared the arrivee and bent down beside the body.

* * *

Christopher Alden had joined the Ministry seven years ago, had been sought out by the Department of Mysteries, as had his younger sister, but unlike the bookish sibling, he had yearned for adventure and a chance to help. The Aurors was his calling and he loved it, but it was missions like this, investigating and identifying random bodies left to rot in plain view by the Death Eaters, that turned his stomach. It was worse than entering homes and finding entire families struck down by the Killing Curse, for these people had been tortured mercilessly, and the bodies always showed it.

He squatted next to the body, wrinkling his nose at the stench of unwashed hair and skin, and, aware of the morbid onlookers watching behind the protection of glass storefronts, began lifting the thick cloth away from the face.

At first, the features were difficult to make out. The light of his wand gave little help in the growing darkness, and the face too swollen to make out clearly who this person had once been, but slowly, as he focused in on the whole of the face, he began to get a picture. It was a man, probably in his late forties. The damage was horrendous.

"Alden? You all right?"

James Hauten, his partner, was walking toward him from where he had been taking a statement from the owner of The Golden Oracle.

Chris could only motion toward the body. He could feel his partner's gaze on him as he crouched down beside him, pulling back the rest of the cloak, exposing the ragged shirt barely clinging to the thin frame except where blood had soaked through the fabric. The pants were torn in the knees and tattered at the ankles. A large black wound in his left thigh gave off the stench of rotting flesh. Hauten covered his nose and mouth as he leaned closer.

"Heilige Hölle," Hauten swore softly. "He was tortured to death." He covered the face again and leaned back. "We should take the body back to be identified. His family will need to be identified." He dug into his pocket for what appeared to be a copper bracelet. "You coming?"

"Yeah."

With one quick movement, Hauten snapped the bracelet around the man's wrist, let go, and counted down from five. The number had barely left his lips when the body disappeared from the road, having been port-keyed directly to St. Mungo's. "I'll see you there."

Hauten disapparated. Chris took a moment to look around at the faces peeking out at him, watching curiously as they dealt with 'just another body.' This man was someone's son, possibly a husband or a father, but no one had come forward to even check if he was alive. None had even come near him. An innocent person was allowed to lie in the middle of a busy street, and no one would had moved. Why? It wasn't callousness. The looks on their faces told him they were not so emotionless. They were hoping it wasn't their family member, their friend. It was fear.

* * *

A year ago, Fred knew exactly what he would have seen when he opened that cabinet. The drawer would've slid open and out would step one enormous shoe, curled in on itself like an oversized party favor to unfurl slowly as it stuck straight out at him, then bent impossibly to the floor, drawing with it a great lanky leg wrapped in bright blue overalls that went up and up over a striped shirt with every damned color of the rainbow and a polka-dot tie. But the worst came last. Always last, and he would nearly wet himself when the face appeared, leaving it to George to rid him of the white face, the ruby lips frozen in a smile that curled around his very eyes, smiling and laughing amid the orange hair, like some sick caricature of himself.

Fred hated clowns. They terrified him. Why muggles would choose to dress up as these monsters to entertain children was completely beyond him. Were they so cruel? Or did they feel a healthy fear was good for everyone, kicking those survival instincts into high gear at an early age?

But lately, even these perverse purveyors of panic would have been welcome to replace his current fear. Curled in on himself in the library of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, Fred tried to cover his face, an vain attempt to hide from his sight the broken body of his twin, blood soaking slowly into the thick carpet, as hazel eyes stared blankly out at him from a head twisted in an impossible fashion.

It wasn't real. He knew that. He knew the counterspell to stop it, but his fingers could not grip his wand. It had fallen from his hand long ago and remained untouched. Afterall, what could he do? How could he fight this? How could he make his twin's death humorous? How could he combat that with laughter? It simply was not in him.

"Fred, did you find that-?" The voice had come through the door, but cut off when it entered. Footsteps padded through the carpet to stand in front of him, blocking him from the Boggart and forcing it to take on a new form. He heard the slight whoosh of air as it changed, but could not uncover his face. "Fred, it's all right," Hermione was saying to him, wrapping her arms around him. "Tonks got rid of it. It's gone."

He tried to pull his hands down, but realized he had been crying, and hastily wiped his face dry on the sleeve of his shirt, but even with that, he was unready to face the room again as an irrational fear seized him that perhaps the body was still there, or worse, would be again soon. Instead, he sat still, staring straight down into the carpet where he sat ignoring all other stimuli in the room.

"Is he okay?" he heard Tonks ask uncertainly.

"I'm fine," he bit out. How could he be fine?

"Tonks, go let Harry and Bill know we'll be there in a second."

"Go with her, Hermione. I just need a few minutes."

"It wasn't your fault, Fred," she responded softly. "He wouldn't want you to act this way."

"Please, Hermione." He did not want to hear this right now. He'd been hearing this, or some variation of it for nearly nine months. He did not want to hear her say-.

"He wouldn't want you to blame yourself like this."

"Just go." How short and simple a request, yet it barely escaped his lips. He did not need to look up at her to know he had hurt her. She was, afterall, practically a sister to him. She retreated silently, and he was secretly glad for it, for her words of comfort had brought fat, hot tears again to his eyes, and though she had seen them all before since George's death, each time they were more difficult for himself to bear.

"I'm sorry, George."

* * *

Completely exhausted from the day's events, Chris strode purposefully across the darkened lot, tried to put his thoughts in order. He hated body drops, hated trying to identify bodies and contact families. The idea of ever having to do one more only made him redouble his efforts with the Order. Even at this hour, he knew someone would be at the Headquarters. Lately, Harry had been staying in Grimmauld Place with Fred, who couldn't bring himself to sleep above the rebuilt shop where his twin had died. In fact, he had spent much less time there than before the attack, often only going when he absolutely had to and leaving the day to day work to a pair of employees he had hired.

He'd been worried about Fred. Since George had died, he'd turned into a shadow of himself. Once in a while, Chris or Harry or one of his brothers could get him to smile or even laugh, but then it would quickly disappear with a look of guilt, as though he was not meant to enjoy himself in any way. It was depressing.

This thought was foremost on his mind as he quietly slipped into the house which few knew even existed. He was completely silent as he made his way past the foyer where a crazed woman's portrait, the Black matriarch, he had heard, hung. Spotting light seeping from beneath the kitchen door, he pushed it open to find exactly who thought he would.

Harry Potter sat at the scrubbed wood table with Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. Their heads leaned close together as though in deep conversation. Harry glanced up at him as he entered and waved him over silently.

"What's wrong?"

While Chris and Harry had never been good friends at school (he was two years ahead of Potter and in Ravenclaw), they had become friends as Aurors. From a distance, they looked like bizarro-world caricatures of each other, both with black hair, though Chris's was every bit as tidy as Harry's was not. While Harry's piercing green eyes drew attention to him wherever he went, Chris's pale blue seemed to deflect attention. The Boy Who Lived was slightly shorter and leaner, while Chris stretched just above six feet. They were as opposite as could be while still giving the vague appearance of being alike. In fact, it had been Harry who had invited him into the Order, taking him out for drinks late one night and talking to him with uncharacteristic seriousness about where the war was going and how the Ministry was faring. Chris had been completely serious with this young savior whom he had seen perform miracles even when he was just another kid at the school.

Now, they stared at each other like funhouse images, Chris's gaze in question, Harry's in concern. Harry shook his head.

"We're worried about Fred."

"What happened?"

"Hermione found him in the library a few hours ago. He completely fell apart when that Boggart came out of the desk."

Chris sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair, then automatically flattened his hair back into place.

"Does he still refuse to go to counseling?"

"Yeah."

"We think it might be best if he got away for a while," Hermione piped in. "The only places he goes are to his shop and here. He's not letting himself get away from George's ghost."

All three men winced at Hermione's phrasing, though they understood her meaning.

"To where?"

"That's the problem." It was Ron who spoke up this time. "You and Harry can't take time from work, I'm in the middle of a term, and Bill won't leave Fleur when she's pregnant."

"And we can't let him go alone," Hermione finished.

"What about Ginny?" Chris offered. He didn't really know the youngest Weasley very well, had actually only met her twice, but she always seemed more like the twins than anyone else in the family.

"She's at the Bulgarian Embassy," Harry said, then glanced up, feeling their eyes on him. "We do still talk."

With a frustrated sigh, Ron rubbed hard on the rip of his nose, then rubbed his hand over his face.

"Alright, guys, I have an early class tomorrow, and I have to be on my toes for the third years." At his friends' questioning looks, he answered with a touch of annoyance, "They know just enough to be dangerous and not quite enough to make it through class without sending one to the Hospital Wing, bloody tadpoles." He swung his feet around to stand up from the bench, Hermione rising with him to talk to the door for their goodnight. As soon as they were out the door, Harry turned back to Chris.

"So what's with you?"

"Huh?"

"That look on your face when you came in. You get sent on another drop?"

"Forrest Denninger," he answered. "He was thirty years old, but the body looked almost fifty." Exhaustion suddenly weighing him down, Chris dropped his head in his hand. "So either Forrest has been time traveling for nearly twenty years, or he was held prisoner and tortured so severely that he aged prematurely." When the other man didn't reply, he continued. "What the hell is he doing, Harry? Every day, more and more people are disappearing, but there's no way he has enough prisons to hold all of them. A few bodies get dropped to keep the populous in fear, but most of them are never seen again. Why? What's the purpose?"

"We don't know yet."

"_Nobody's_ heard _anything_?"

"No, but then, Draco's been out of contact lately."

* * *

Two cloaked figures leaned over a thin wooden table, flipping down cards idly, going through the motions of a game. Their masks were also on the table near their elbows, but it was no concern. They and the man stretched out in front of the fire had known each other since they were children, so they had nothing to hide from one another. There were no secrets in this room.

"You been down to the dungeons, Goyle?"

"I went down yesterday with my dad."

"Did you see him?"

"Who?"

"One of the prisoners is from the Order."

"Which one?"

"Potter's Order."

"I mean which prisoner?"

"Dunno. Haven't seen him myself. Just heard he was down there."

"Then how do you know he's there?"

"I just heard it. People talk."

"It's gossip," came the bored voice from the chair closest to the fire. "You know better than to listen to gossip, Crabbe. Besides, if the Dark Lord thought we should know who his prisoners were, he would have told us."

"It's just talk," Crabbe said, by way of defense. "We're just talking."

"You should know better. You both should." The figure turned his face toward them so his pale, pointed profile was visible in the light of the fire. "Even idle talk can land you in trouble."

"It's just us, though."

"The Dark Lord suspects a spy in his midst. Do not give out information so freely." Draco Malfoy leaned back in his chair, staring again into the flames. "You never know who could be listening."


	3. Chapter 3

Draco Malfoy slowly made his way into the dungeons of Domus Divereor, one of many old sanctuaries of the Death Eaters, careful to stay clear of the Dementors that roamed the corridors, keeping their prisoners trapped within their own personal nightmares. Draco had no time for them now, no wish to relive the most horrific moments of his life- there were too many, and he had neither the time nor the willingness. He was on a mission, though none had given him the orders. It was, in fact, a rumor which had prompted his little trek through the Dark Lord's prison only days after being brought here for the first time in his, so far, illustrious career as a Death Eater.

So far, the rumors did not appear to be true.

Another black-robed figure passed him, and Draco nodded behind his white mask, before slipping down the stairs to the lowest level of the dungeon where important prisoners would be kept. And if a member of the Order truly was being kept prisoner, this was the most likely of locations.

This level of Domus Divereor were dimly lit, as few prisoners were kept down here, and those who were found themselves mercilessly tortured. Few lasted down here more than a few weeks, he had heard, though if what Crabbe had been saying was true, this prisoner had been in custody for more than the few days Draco had been at the stronghold. Draco didn't want to think about what he would find. He didn't know of anyone who had been missing, but then he had had little contact with the Order of the last few weeks.

_"Lumos,"_ he whispered, and his wand lit up, casting eerie shadows onto the dull stone walls.

The dungeons were eerily still, he noticed, and he thought for a moment the rumors had been wrong when the temperature suddenly dropped several degrees. He fought to keep the memories at bay as a Dementor moved toward him. He could vaguely hear the screams in the back of his mind as he conjured a rather weak patronus to ward off the creature.

That it was even there was a good sign. It meant at least one prisoner would be found this night.

Slowly, he made his way through the dungeon, his eyes piercing the darkness of the cells, most of them empty, before stopping at nearly the last one. The figure was curled up on the floor within view of the barred window, shivering furiously, even though it was April. His shirt, or what was left of it, was little more than rags, and even in this light, Draco could see the bruises and scrapes that tracked his dirty torso.

As quietly as possible, Draco unlocked the door and stepped inside. Expectedly, the prisoner showed no sign of having heard the entrance. He was either unconscious or too weak to respond in any way. After crossing the small cell, Draco crouched down and, gently grasping the man's bearded chin, lifted it to see the face more clearly. The prisoner's groan alerted the Death Eater that he was holding onto a badly bruised portion of the man's face, but as most of it appeared to be purple and swollen, there was nothing he could do about that now.

Draco lifted his wand to illuminate the man more clearly, examining the face, and with a little surprise, the hair. "Weasley," he hissed, but there was no stir beyond the earlier groan. Glancing over his shoulder at the empty corridor beyond the door, he leaned closer. "Fred?"

The eyes flickered, then opened slowly, revealing two dull hazel eyes before closing again. Weasley licked his parched lips before answering.

"G-G-George." His voice was hoarse, probably from screaming.

Stunned, Draco did not move for a long heartbeat

"Are you sure?"

The look he was given was pure pain.

"Yeah."

Draco recovered quickly from his shock, realizing that George Weasley was indeed alive and lying in a prison cell right in front of him. This was the Order member rumored to have been kept here.

"You look good for a dead man."

"D-dea-d?"

"Yeah. A body was found burnt up in your shop. Everyone thought it was you."

"W-wasn't."

"Yeah, I know. Your brothers will be thrilled to hear that. Are you injured?" Draco asked, knowing what a ridiculous question it was, even as his hand delve into his robes for one of the many healing potions he had brought with him. "How do you feel?"

"Gr-gr-great," he answered weakly before again wetting his lips. "J-just h-hangin' out."

Draco had to suppress a smile at Weasley's dark humor as he helped the other man to sit up and pressed a vial to his lips.

"Drink this. It will heal any internal damage." Weasley choked on it at first, before finally drinking down the potion.

"Th-th-th-th." He closed his eyes, frustrated at his inability to put words together. "You're welcome."

Weasley nodded back to him, and Draco noticed his shaking was getting worse. He hoped it was merely from the chill stone he was laying on and not a sign of the torture he had undergone.

"I must go, Weasley, but I'll come back."

"T-take your t-t-time," he stammered, his eyes sliding closed. "I-I'm not g-going anywh-where." He coughed again; this time, blood stained his lips, menacingly bright against his pale skin as he gingerly lowered himself to the ground again.

Draco backed away. Glancing into the corridor to be sure it was still empty, he slid out of the cell and relocked it before trudging back the way he had come, attempting to appear calm, but feeling a great fear in his chest. Could he be saved? Or would he merely become another casualty in a war that had claimed too many already? Potter understood the difficulties of his position as a spy, but Ron would try to kill him. Fred would be the one to succeed. Once, in fifth year, George had punched him in the face after a Quidditch match and sent his world spinning. And he was the calm one. Draco was in no hurry to find out what Fred was capable of with his fists if George ended up dying. Again.

* * *

George remained curled on the floor for a long time after Malfoy left, unable to contain the shivers that traveled through his limbs. He was freezing, as always, but was scared too, as he had not been for a long time. He'd grown used to his captivity, if that was possible, but speaking, or trying to speak, to another person and make sense had been much more difficult than it should have been. He wondered when the stuttering had begun. It had been some time since he'd spoken to any of the guards that made their way down, but that had generally been more colorful language. Trying to get an idea across was almost painful. But then, everything was painful. That was why he did little more than lay on the floor.

It was how he spent most of his days anymore, feeling too weak to get up and move around. Even with the potion the spy had slipped to him, he doubted he could stand very easily, and certainly not without help. His muscles had already begun their slow deterioration thanks to a lack of nutrition and exercise. And without an outside window, he had no way of knowing how long he had even been here. A few months, as least, but for all he knew, it could have been a year. Early on, the daily visits by sadistic dignitaries had given him a sense of time, but apparently they had bored of him and their visits had become less frequent.

Not that he minded in the least. Given the choice, only Malfoy would get the engraved invitation to his cell. At least he brought gifts.

But George knew it was coming. He'd been left alone to long.

A heavy dread settled in his stomach as this thought fluttered through his brain. It was something he tried not to think about, but with so much time with nothing but his brain, there was little else to do. He attempted to block out the thoughts and listened to the long silence, punctuated by his own shallow breaths, but whatever calm he gained was invaded by footsteps- several footsteps- outside the door. That was more than one person, and Malfoy was not likely to bring help this soon.

He squeezed his eyes shut as the door was thrown open and people moved inside, talking and laughing at their game. Prostrate as he was, George could feel them closing in on him and felt the panic pervading his bones, gripping his chest.

A boot caught him in the stomach, and he curled in further to contain the pain with a hoarse cry.

"Wakey, wakey, little Weasley."

_Please, just let them go away._

"Now, now, no point playing dead." A pair of hands grabbed him pulling him roughly to his feet. He swayed, throwing out his arms to catch himself on the wall, but Death Eaters grabbed each arm and held him in place. Fingers thrust their way into his long hair, grabbing a fistful and snapping his head back so he was staring up into a white mask. "You have company coming, Weasley. We need to get you ready."

That voice terrified him. He had heard it the night he had been captured, accompanying pain like he had never felt. And he had heard it more times than he could count while he'd been in the hellhole. He had never seen the man's face, but the voice sent chills down his spine every time he heard it.

"No! NO!" He fought them, attempting to throw what little weight he had to tear himself from their grips, but he was too weak, too beaten, and was dragged to the middle of the cell. As chains began to snake their way down from the ceiling, all strength left George and he collapsed to the floor, but it did nothing to save him. His captors made no sound as they clapped the manacles around his wrists. Against his will, a sob escaped his throat.

He was so tired of this. Tired of being strung up, of being beaten and cut. Tired of sleeping on stone, of being cold and hungry. He was tired of being alone and being scared.

George was just tired of everything.

_How long would it be before Malfoy comes back_, he wondered as his arms were yanked over his head by the chain.

_How much longer until help comes?_

He was pulled back to his feet by the shortening chain.

_Or until they finally tire of me and put me out of my misery?_

As his feet left the ground, a small part of him hoped this would be it, that it would finally end with this meeting.

_But they've found me,_ his mind argued. _I just have to hold on. Just a little longer._

The door to his cell crashed open, but George did not lift his head. There was no reason. He knew the Death Eaters were backing away from him- that a greater danger was in the room.

"George Weasley, I see you are still alive." Long, elegant fingers reached up, gripping his chin. "How have you been enjoying your accommodations?"

George Weasley never claimed to be a genius or any type of intellectual, though it was fairly common knowledge that he was the brains of the twin duo. True, test scores never reflected the extent of his intelligence, but he was a fairly smart person in his own right. Therefore, he had been pretty quick to pick up on certain lessons over the last eight months as a guest in this tiny little cell. That first lesson was learning when to hold his tongue. Like any good Weasley, his first instinct had always been to fire back some quick wit. He had done that only once with Lord Psychopath himself and learned quickly after waking up in a pool of his own blood and vomit and learning he had lain unconscious in it for three days. He had few memories of that particular visitor's hour, though that he could not remember it was nearly as terrifying as the prospect of having it as fodder for his nightmares for the next fifty years of his life. He had enough without that one.

With Lucius Malfoy, the lesson had come more slowly. He did not have the sheer power of his twisted master, but he was every bit as sadistic. George had become intimately acquainted with the Cruciatus Curse and Lucius' joy in mixing it with other lesser curses. Chase a Bone-Breaking Curse with a good strong Crucio, and guarantee that your victim would not stand up to you again- at least, not on his own legs. Of course, Lucius had to fix the damage. It wouldn't do to mess up Lord Psychopath's toy, but that didn't mean it had to be done right. The exquisite pain promised this Weasley would not be standing too often or for too long without absolute necessity.

* * *

Severus Snape was leaning over his work bench, contemplating his latest potion when Draco found him at Spinner's End. He hadn't knocked when he walked in, as the wards had recognized him for many years- since his escape from Hogwarts at the end of sixth year. In all that time, Draco had never returned to the school, though Severus had several times, under cover of darkness, to speak with McGonagall. Snape had changed greatly in those years, becoming harder, more cynical, if that was possible. Even now, had Draco not seen him work first-hand, he would never believe the man worked against the Dark Lord. He was the quintessential Death Eater.

"Snape."

"You're back early, Draco," Snape commented, not turning toward him, but continuing to gaze into his cauldron. "I thought you were sent to Domus Divereor."

"I was, but I need some things," Draco told his back. "And I need you to deliver a message for me."

Now, Snape did turn around, his eyebrow raised slightly over his right eye in curiosity.

"Speak."

Draco hated it when he did this. It made him feel like he was a student again, reciting his lesson to his professor. But he wasn't a student, and hadn't been for a long time. He closed the door, waving his wand lazily to seal it against eavesdroppers, namely Wormtail.

"Tell them I found George Weasley. He has been the Dark Lord's guest at Divereor, but I'll need help getting him out."

Though his expression did not change, shock was in Snape's eyes in the slight widening.

"George Weasley? Draco, are you positive?"

"Yeah. I couldn't believe it either. He looks like he's been to hell and back, but he's alive."

"I'll pass on the message, but you will have to report yourself. I have no doubt they will want details."

"When I can get away."

"Good. Now, your supplies."

"Weasley is weak and in constant pain. Internal injuries are a given. External-."

"Do nothing for the external. You will be found out too easily if his cuts are healed."

"I agree." He examined Snape who now leaned casually against the bench with his arms folded across his chest. "However, there's something else- something much more troublesome." He furrowed his brows, not knowing if Snape would even have anything to help.

"Continue."

"He stutters, has problems putting thoughts together, unable to retain body heat."

"Could simply be a result of his extended captivity."

"His hands shake, badly. His skin was clammy. His eyes are glassy."

"What do you think?" Snape asked, as though testing his knowledge of symptoms and treatments.

"As you said, it could be a result of being in a cold dungeon for so long."

"It could."

"Or it could be- neurological."

"There are no potions to heal that." Snape unwrapped his arms and went toward the cupboard where he kept his stores. "If his brain has become damaged, he must be placed in proper care. There is nothing that can be done for him while he is in captivity." He selected several bottles and placed them in the bench. "If they are purely physiological in nature, these should help. Worry only about internal or life-threatening injuries. Leave anything minor to elude suspicion."

Draco nodded, placing each bottle into his pockets.

"Thank you." Snape merely nodded in return as Draco left.


	4. Chapter 4

A lone figure appeared in a small park on Grimmauld Place. To the muggles in the area, he was nothing more than a shadow, a darkened patch in an already dark night. A hood pulled far over his face, the figure strode across the lawn, seemingly disappearing again, to any who might have noticed him, which none ever had, nor would they this night. Nor would they see the door he slipped through, entering a house none knew even existed.

Once in the safety of the house, Draco Malfoy pulled the hood back, revealing his white-blond hair and pointed features, drawn and pale from his long stint in the service of the Dark Lord. He was exhausted, having gone too many hours on no sleep and too many invigorating potions. And to make things worse, he thought he was coming down with a cold.

The house was quiet. He pushed the door open and was surprised to find Ron Weasley and Tonks in the dingy kitchen alone.

"Where is everyone?" he asked incredulously. The Order was supposed to be assembled for his report.

"Hermione, Bill, and Remus are upstairs in the library. Kingsley, Harry, and Chris are at the Ministry in a briefing, and McGonogall is taking care of a problem at the school," he answered without looking up.

"Draco? Soup?" Tonks asked, motioning toward the stove.

"Who made it?" While Draco had only recently come to think of the half-blood as kin, he was not exactly welcoming of her completely. Her cooking skills, in self-preservation, he had come to be wary of.

"My mum," she answered with exasperation. He had obviously not been the first to ask this question. He nodded.

"What are you doing?" Draco asked as Tonks ladled up the hot broth and vegetables.

"What does it look like?" Ron asked, glancing up from a stack of student papers. "I'm grading papers."

"A fool leading the dim," Draco murmured, peeling off his cloak.

"Better than a murderous turncoat," Ron snapped.

"Don't start," Tonks warned them both, setting the bowl on the table, but Draco didn't sit down yet. His eyes narrowed at Ron, who was glaring back. It was an old argument that had turned venomous since their school days. To Draco, Ron was simply a hanger-on who contributed little but being Potter's best friend, but for the youngest Weasley boy, Draco represented something darker. He was the embodiment of the Death Eaters, the catalyst for his parents' murder. Harry may have seen Draco as an ally, but Ron only ever saw the Death Eater.

Suddenly feeling less hungry, Draco ignored the soup Tonks sat in front of him and removed himself from the kitchen. He was in no mood to simply socialize, certainly not with Weasley, and if his irritation was any indicator, Potter hadn't shared the news of George's survival with the rest of the Order yet. If this meeting was going to be stressful, he didn't want to deal with it feeling as tired as he was.

Moving himself to the library, Draco stretched himself out on the couch. He lay there for several minutes, staring up at the ceiling above, pondering the events that had brought him here, to be laying in the very heart of the headquarter's for the Dark Lord's opposition, a traitor to everything he had been raised to uphold. Though he rarely questioned his decision anymore, he still had to wonder if he was completely sane in making it.

_Home alone, Draco slunk down in a chair in his father's library, attempting to silence the screams in his brain with a good strong firewhiskey. He had been marked for two years now, and it both was and wasn't what he was expecting. The feeling of power, the superiority, the screams. The endless screams. The begging. The pain. The bowing. The pandering. He couldn't help but wonder how many others hated themselves for the decision they had made. Or if he was the only weak one in the bunch._

_What would his father say?._

_A sound reached his ears, nearly nonexistent, but in the silence of the room, he felt sure he had heard it. Draco sat up suddenly, the ice tinkling gently within the glass in his hand, and listened. He knew he was alone. Both of his parents were out, and he would have known if anyone else was at the house, but still, the hairs on the back of his neck rose. Setting his glass on the table next to him, he stood up slowly, drawing his wand from his robes, and strode to the door of the library. Pushing the door open with his free hand, he stepped out onto the landing and scanned the stairs and the foyer below._

_"Hello?" He called out, hearing his own echo return to him in answer. "Is anyone there?" _

_Nobody answered, not that he had expected anyone to. The sound had probably been a house elf, or the house settling in the wind. With one last surreptitious look around, he returned to the library, flopped himself down into the armchair and reached for his drink, closing his eyes to sip it._

_He felt, rather than heard, the movement near him, and sure enough when he opened his eyes he found there was another person in the room with him, sitting in the leather chair directly across from him and watching him with an intensity that made Draco hesitate drawing his wand. _

_"Don't even try, Malfoy," Harry Potter said calmly, leaning back into the leather chair. "I didn't come here to fight you."_

_"How did you get in here?" Draco demanded, trying not to show the fear he felt before this apparition. Potter simply stared back, not answering. "Why are you here, Potter?"_

_"To talk."_

_Draco snorted._

_"To talk? Please, let's do," he answered in mock-cheeriness. "How did your N.E.W.T.S. go? Do you think you passed?"_

_"I didn't sit for any tests, Malfoy. And I think you knew that. Like you, I had- other lessons to learn." He folded his hands in his lap, as though it was the most normal thing in the world for him to sit here in Malfoy Manor speaking with Draco. The Death Eater shivered when he realized of whom Potter reminded him so much. _

"_And yet, you still joined the Aurors. Noblesse oblige?"_

"_Special circumstances."_

"_Always is with you." Draco relaxed just a little. Sitting across from the Boy Who Lived and bantering like this almost made him forget who he was now and become the schoolboy he had been._

_Almost._

"_I wanted to talk to you about sixth year."_

_"Reminiscing, Potter?" _

_"Something like that. You were sent to kill Dumbledore. And you couldn't do it."_

_Draco knew how he should have responded to this. He should have sneered. Should have feigned indifference or ignorance. He should have done these things and grappled the upper-hand from the oh-so-confident Gryffindor. Instead, Draco felt as though ice water had been poured over him. A chill raced up his spine, as though to remind him of the punishment he had received for failure._

_"How could you know that?" he asked in little more than a whisper, but Potter made no answer. Draco realized the Boy-Who-Lived was not looking him in the eyes as he had been, but instead was staring at Draco's hand, which unfortunately was trembling beyond his control. He dropped the drink involuntarily and clutched his hands together, ignoring the shatter of the tumbler on the hardwood floor. "How could you possibly know that?"_

_"I was there," he answered calmly, once more looking up at Draco's eyes, but the former-Slytherin found it impossible to meet the gaze. _

_"Liar!" he spat, sounding more Snapeish than Malfoy. "There was nobody there with us."_

_"Are you sure?" He cocked his head, as though studying Draco, making him feel as though those green eyes could see straight through him. "He was going to save you. He offered you mercy, a way out. And you were going to take it. You were a moment away from being a different person."_

_"If you were there, why didn't you try to help him? Why didn't you kill me?"_

_"Believe me, Draco, had he not petrified me, I probably would have. But then, if I had, I would not be sitting here talking to you now."_

_"Why _are_ you here, Potter? Looking to be my friend, now? Or looking to kill me?"_

_"Neither." He looked serious now, more serious than he had during their jaunt down memory lane. "I'm here to make you an offer."_

_"Let me guess: Mercy?" He tried his best to sneer, but found it more difficult than it should have been._

_"It's a little late for mercy." He smiled eerily. "Or early, depending on how you look at it. I'm offering you a second chance. I'm offering redemption." His eyes locked on Draco, and even had he wanted to, he could not pull away. "Help me bring down Voldemort."_

_"Are you insane?"_

_"Not yet."_

_"What makes you think I won't simply hand you to the Dark Lord? Harry Potter with a red bow would make me well-rewarded."_

_"I thought Malfoys were subservient to no one. You sound like a mongrel hoping to be thrown a scrap. Is that what life with the big dogs is really like?" Draco's face heated up, but before he could answer, Potter was speaking again. "Besides, if you double-cross me, if you get my friends killed, I'll hunt you down myself."_

_"High and mighty Potter isn't above killing then?"_

_"I never said I was. But for you, Draco, there are much worse things than death."_

_Now Draco did shiver. There was a look in Potter's eyes that glimmered with knowledge that had not been there before. This was a much darker Harry Potter than he had faced in school. This one may have been worth knowing._

_"You can't expect me to answer tonight."_

_"Of course not."_

_"How do I get in touch with you if I decide-."_

_"You won't," he said rising from the chair. "I'll find you."_

_"How long?"_

_"I'm not sure exactly. But I will return." He pulled a cloak over his shoulders as he walked toward the door, but stopped suddenly and looked back. "Unless you actually see a dead body, mind you, I'll be back." He walked on. Then, just before reaching the door to the library, Potter disappeared completely, as though the air had simply swallowed him up, without an Invisibility Cloak and without the telltale pop of disapparation. He had simply- disappeared._

"Draco?"

Draco jerked and opened his eyes, not even realizing that he had fallen asleep. He blinked a few times, then looked over the back of the couch toward the light seeping through the door to where Tonks was peering through the darkness to find him.

"Everyone's gathered. Harry sent me to find you."

Groaning to find himself even more tired after his short nap, he pulled himself upright and rested his elbows on his knees a moment.

"I'll be right there."

Potter was sitting at the kitchen table, his fists drawn contemplatively to his chin, as though he wasn't quite aware of the others around him. Ron sat across from him, looking annoyed. When Draco finally sat down, Harry glanced up, frowning a bit.

"You look like hell."

"Good," he answered back. "I look better than I feel."

"Where's Ginny?"

"We couldn't reach her," Hermione spoke up. "I'll keep trying, though."

Harry nodded absently.

"Draco, tell them what you've found."

Nothing like getting right to the point. But then again, Potter wasn't exactly known for his great orations.

Draco took a deep breath, steadying himself, not for the news he was about to deliver, but for the aftermath.

"George Weasley is alive and being held in the dungeons of Domus Divereor."

There were exclamations from around the table, questioning the veracity of Draco's words and whether or not it was a trick.

"Quiet!" Harry yelled, hailing silence over the gathering. "Let him finish."

"It _is_ George Weasley. I found him there nearly three weeks ago and have spoken to him several times. I have no doubt it's really him." These words he directed toward Fred, who sat pale and silent at the other end, clearly too shocked at the news to even breathe. The others at the table did not seem to have the same problem.

"You _knew_ he was there?"

"Three _weeks_?"

Both Ron and Bill were on their feet now.

"I've been there for the last month, Weasley. Think about it. Until today, when's the last time you saw me face to face?"

"Convenient excuse, Malfoy!"

"Enough!" Harry yelled, slapping his hand on the table. Ron, Bill, and Draco were staring at him. The entire room sat in stunned silence. "Snape reported the possibility to me not long after Draco found him," he said with a nod toward the end of the table where the potions master sat next to McGonagall, "but I need to know what happened, and Draco obviously knows. If he can't tell me without you attacking him, Ron, go back to Hogwarts right now."

"Harry-."

"I mean it, Ron." Harry looked suddenly very weary. "If you want to stay, stay, but you have to keep your temper in check."

Ron sat down without another word, though everyone at the table could easily read the temper splashed across his face and ears in crimson.

"As I said," Draco continued, casting a quick glance at Ron before focusing again on Harry, "I found him a few weeks ago. Unfortunately, I have been unable to make direct contact with the Order until today." The table looked again toward the spy. Draco took a deep breath. "I visit him whenever I can, but I have to be careful. If I am discovered, he has no chance of escape."

Ron glowered at him from across the table and Draco stared piercingly back. He knew what the red-head was thinking. In his place, he'd be wondering the same thing.

"Ask the question, Weasley," Draco said at last, not bothering to look at him.

"How's George?"

"Alive, though badly hurt. He'd been a plaything of the Dark Lord and some of the higher level Death Eaters since he was captured."

"How bad?"

"Bad." Draco pulled his robes more tightly around himself, as though a chill had reached into his bones. "He's withstood too many bouts of the Cruciatus Curse, and he's slept and eaten little. If he is not rescued soon, I don't think he'll survive much longer." He stared at Ron a moment, seeing the next question that Ron seemed reluctant to ask. "You've never been shy, Weasley. Ask the question on your mind."

"Did you torture him?"

Draco held his gaze, then very slowly, nodded.

Though history had always credited Draco Malfoy as being the quicker of the two, he did not move as Ron Weasley shot at him from across the table, landing a hard punch to his mouth. Malfoy rocked back, grabbing his mouth with one hand and drawing his wand with the other. He was prevented from retaliation when Snape stood from his seat, throwing his arms wide, causing both young men to be slammed against opposite walls of the kitchen and held, squirming.

"We do not have time for this," he hissed, shooting glares at both as though they were first years again, threatening to shatter his delicate patience with their insolence.

"That bastard tortured George!"

"And it saved his life!" Draco shot back, squirming in Snape's invisible grip.

"I'm sure he's grateful, you son of a-!" He struggled against the hold as well.

"Ronald!" Minerva cried, shooting up from her chair. "That is quite enough!"

Normally, if Harry or Snape were in the room, the murderous intent between the two would have dissipated at once. Only they ever seemed to be able to control the two of them, but not today.

Draco should have kept his mouth shut. He knew this. He had been sat down for 'the talk' by both Snape and Potter on more occasions than he could count, but Weasley just grated on him.

"Careful, Weasley," Draco returned venomously. "Right now, I'm the only person in a position to save your brother. You wouldn't want me slow to return to him."

Snape turned very slowly to gaze at his young protégé, silencing any other words that had risen in the blond's throat. Then he glanced at McGonagall, as though communicating silently with her.

"Professor Weasley," she said slowly, formally, "In the library, now."

Ron's face darkened as he was dropped in a heap on the floor. In his three years on the Hogwarts staff, Ron had enjoyed an easy and almost familial relationship with the headmistress. She had nearly become the motherly figure in his life that had been missing for too long. That he was being escorted from the meeting was nothing compared to the why: he knew that as soon as they were out of the room, the lectures would begin about putting differences aside for the common good, for McGonagall would most certainly take Draco's side in this. He was, afterall, a spy and had to keep up appearances. Fuming, the young professor stood, brushing dust from his robes and strode out without even glaring back at either Death Eater. Minerva McGonagall strode after him.

Draco dropped to the floor. Snape removed a handkerchief from his robes and held it out to him, keeping his façade cold and detached. Draco took it without looking up and dabbed at the blood on his lips.

"That was a foolish game, Draco."

"I hadn't realized we were playing."

"You goaded him into a asking that question simply so you could throw it in his face." Snape stood over him, but looked at the wall over Draco's shoulder as he spoke, as though he could not bring himself to face the young Death Eater, something that pained Draco more than being shouted at.

"As a member of the Order, you are expected to show constraint, Draco," he continued, completely ignoring the presence of the rest of the Order, who, wisely, pretended not to exist at that moment. They simply watched in silence, half pondering the news Draco had brought, half digesting the scene they had just witnessed. "I am not talking about this little stunt you just pulled. I am speaking of George Weasley. If what you reported about his condition is true, I am led to believe you either caused his current condition or contributed in such a way that his life is in danger from those injuries."

"He understood."

Snape turned quickly at this softer pronouncement, locking eyes with the young man who still sat on the floor where he had fallen, handkerchief held to his lip.

"Explain."

"My father was there," he explained. "I said something stupid, and he held me to it."

"What did you say?"

"That I owed Weasley for the lesson Father gave me."

There was whispering, followed by a throat clearing, but Draco did not look to see who it was. He remained focused on Snape.

"I see. And you leapt at the chance?"

"Of course not! It was more complex than that!"

"Then enlighten me." He folded his arms, causing his robes to flutter, then fall softly over his body like folding wings.

"I could torture him or join him. That was the choice I was given. Weasley understood that and- gave permission."

"Gave permission? Tell me, Draco, how does a sane man give permission for a Death Eater to torture him after, as you've already explained, he's been the plaything of Death Eaters for several months?" Feeling restless, he began pacing. Draco's eyes followed him on his track from one wall to the next and back again. As he did so, he noticed the room had emptied without him noticing. Only Potter remained, leaning absolutely still next to the door.

"How does a supposedly sane man, one of the most powerful wizards alive, give permission for his trusted spy to kill him?" Draco countered bitterly.

Snape stopped pacing, but did not look back at the young man. He instead stood staring at the empty chair that had always been Dumbledore's.

"You overstep your bounds, Draco," he said coldly.

"How did you manage to convince the others you were doing as you were ordered?" Draco continued. "Dumbledore wasn't exactly there to back you up- unless you count that marble tomb."

"Shut up, Draco."

"How did Potter go from trying to kill you to trusting you again?" He asked, glancing toward the raven haired auror. "He-." A strong force slammed him in the chest, throwing him backwards into the wall once more. Just as quickly, Snape had strode forward and now stood with his face near enough to Draco that he could see the tiny veins in the man's wild eyes.

"You could never _begin_ to understand." Draco tried to return the cold glare, but there was something in Snape's glare which was undefinable. "Do not _ever_ attempt to question me on this again. Do you understand?"

"Yes." The force subsided, and Draco was again on the floor. Snape had turned his back on him, ignoring him as Draco struggled back to his feet. He glared at Snape's back, knowing the man could feel it. He always could. It was like a sixth sense with him. The man, however, continued to pay him no attention. Draco did not move.

"He sang."

"What?"

"I said, he sang. George did." He carefully watched his mentor's form as he pronounced the next words. "He knew it would make me angry, that that's what I needed- for him to push me. No one else knew he was telling me to do it, but I did."

Snape tensed a bit at this, but did not turn around.

_The Dark Lord had placed Draco's services here where his father was in charge, and though Draco had plenty to keep himself busy in disciplining recruits, he had never been called down to the dungeons. He had found his way down there several times in the week since he had discovered the missing Weasley, but none of his visits had been for Death Eater business. At least, not until today. His father had summoned him, saying only that he had a surprise for his son, a reward for his so far illustrious career in the Dark Lord's service._

_Screams punctuated the air around him, and Draco froze for a moment. There were many prisoners in the upper levels of the dungeons, but he seemed to know instinctively to whom these belonged They bounced up the stairs from the lower corridor with such fierceness, Draco wasn't sure his instincts were correct. Could this really be coming from the half-dead man downstairs? _

_He hurried along, his gaze, well adjusted to the dim corridors, sliding over each cell as he passed, hoping he was wrong. In a moment, he came to the last cell, where the door still stood open. He pushed through a small gathering of black robes. _

_George Weasley hung rather heavily from his wrists, his arms tensed as his feet flailed nearly a foot above the ground. His body arched backward in response to the current curse being held on him by the small circle of Death Eaters laughing near him. Weasley, apparently, was to be the night's entertainment. Draco shivered. He had been able to hear his screams as soon as he had entered the subterranean levels. From the looks of it, George had been granted little time of peace._

_As Draco neared Weasley's tormentors, he noticed his father among them. The man must have felt his son's eyes on him, for he turned and smiled at Draco over his shoulder. Weasley's torture ended momentarily, and the redhead dropped heavily on the ends of his shackles, all strength gone from his body._

_Draco faltered in his stride, all the blood in his body chilled at that instant. The familiarity of the scene, his father's benign smile reminded him exactly why he had switched sides. An image of the old man, Benefice, filled his mind._

"_Draco."_

_Draco blinked up at his father, then hurried forward when he realized that he had stopped in the middle of the crowd and stared._

_"Father," he said crisply, "You asked for me?"_

_"I did." he answered. "You have done well, Draco. Our Lord is happy with you. You have been granted a reward." _

_Draco made no answer. He didn't know exactly what he was saying. Was the Dark Lord, in fact, unhappy with him, and this was Lucius' way of letting him know? Would he be strung up next to Weasley? Or was his reward to be let in on the secrets of this place? One never knew with Lucius Malfoy._

_"You know who this is?"_

_"No," he answered, feeling more confident that he had not been found out and would not be tortured. "Though he looks like one of the Weasel's brothers."_

_"He is. He is also the one who punched you in front of your school. Such an affront should never go unpunished. Especially not by a Malfoy."_

_Draco gazed up at the prisoner, hanging pitifully by his wrists attempting to focus his eyes on those before him._

_"What would you suggest, Father?" Draco asked, hoping to stall for time. _

_"A lesson, my son," Lucius answered. "Teach him a lesson about propriety." He bowed his head mockingly and gestured grandiosely toward the prisoner._

_Draco chanced a look up at Weasley and found that he was watching him through swollen eyes. A spasm rocked through George's body, a sure sign that he had withstood more than his share of the Cruciatus Curse. _

_"Come, Draco," his father drawled. "Teach him the lesson he should have learned long ago."_

_Draco looked back up at the prisoner, trying to keep his gaze hard, to not let the apology show. It was difficult, though. He only hoped that he could be forgiven someday, by someone. He simply could not bring himself to actually draw his wand._

_"Careful, Father. He looks like any more would kill him."_

_"Perhaps you are the one who needs a lesson, Draco." Lucius' voice was suddenly hard. "Draw your wand or join him."_

_Draco did not like either prospect. He tried to respond to avoid both choices, but a movement above him, however, surprised him._

_Weasley smiled. _

_A tight, pained smile._

_What the hell?_

_"S-S-Slytherin scum." Weasley's breathing was shallow, but his voice was strong enough for those words to reach Draco's ears. Was he completely insane? Taunting?_

_"You're in no position to insult, Weasley," Draco called back coolly._

_"R-Ron was r-right ab-b-bout you." His voice was hoarse, but the whole gathering heard what he said. "Y-You are a w-worthless f-ferret."_

_"You'll pay for that, Weasley," Draco responded, drawing his wand. _

_"A-Any-th-thing you g-give me, I'll p-pay b-back." His smile faded to a grimace, and he closed his eyes. He seemed to be bracing himself before drawing in a deep breath and belting out airily: "Dra-co, the boun-cing fer-ret! B-Bouncing up and down the halls!" His singing was cut off abruptly by his own screams._

"Potter," Snape said at last, his voice having lost much of its venom, "too much time has been wasted. We should continue the meeting."

"Draco?" Harry's gaze turned at last to the younger spy.

"Snape's right. We don't have much time left."

With a nod Harry opened the door and disappeared for just a moment. In seconds, the Order was gathered again around the table. No mention was made of the scene that had just passed, though Ron looked more than a little angry sitting silently next to Hermione.

"So how do we get him out?" It was Fred who asked this question, folding his hands on the table before him.

"_We_ don't," Draco answered. "This is too big for the Order. The stronghold is too well-protected. It has to be a Ministry job."

"If we wait for the Ministry, it could take weeks!"

"George could be dead by the time they do anything!"

"He has Draco watching out for him," Remus offered, but was drowned out by Ron's loud "The hell, Malfoy!"

"I agree with Draco." Harry's voice was quiet. His eyes met Kingsley's as he said this, avoiding those of the Weasley's. It was enough to quiet the room. "He's right. We don't have the manpower to storm a place this big. We need the MLE."

"But George-."

"Has Draco to look for him." Harry closed his eyes, looking older than every man in the room. "This is the only way."

"What can we do?" Bill looked up and down the table. "It was obviously decided before we were gathered that this would be a Ministry mission. What do you need us for?"

"Planning."

At Harry's answer, Draco reached into his pocket and dropped several coins on the table. With a wave of his wand, the coins were transfigured into stacks of paper- all the information on Domus Divreor he had been able to gather.

"Draco is the only source of information we have on this place. Any plan we come up with for infiltration, I want approved by him first. That means we have less than six hours to conceive every possible plan and find one he thinks might work."

"Six hours?" Hermione's momentary excitement at the prospect of combing through this information faded. "Why only six hours?"

"Because Draco will be returning to his post, and when he does we will have no way to contact him again until the raid. We need as much planned tonight as can possibly been done. Draco needs to look over it and let us know whether or not it will work. Then Shacklebolt will present the plan to the Minister as his own."

The table was silent. Then, slowly, they began to pull the papers forward, sorting through the information.

Six and a quarter hours later, Draco was pulling his cloak around himself once more. Most of the Order had left in the last half hour, though Harry, Shacklebolt, himself, and the Weasleys still remained. It was time for Draco to depart. He had studied the plan they had come up with, poked holes in every aspect he could, offered suggestions, and finally declared it sound. Over the last hour, he had memorized every detail, until he knew the day, time, and movements of the Aurors unconsciously. The next time he had contact with these people, either George would be thanking him or his brothers would be killing him.

Such was the path he walked.

Well, except for now. This path would only take him back to his flat to get cleaned up and climb into bed long enough for the sun to rise and Goyle to knock on his door.

"Draco," Harry said coming up behind him in the foyer. "When's the last time you slept?"

A sarcastic remark was on the tip of Draco's tongue, but in his fatigue, he swallowed it back.

"A few days."

Harry nodded, knowing better than to tell him to sleep. "Take care of yourself," but as he turned to leave, Draco grabbed his forearm, shooting a long look towards the kitchen door before turning his steely gaze on him.

"He's been through a lot, Harry," he said, invoking his first name as he did only when they were in private. "Much worse than I told his brothers."

"George?"

"I don't know when we'll be in contact again," Draco continued. "His brothers- you have to understand, he may not be the same person."

"I understand."

"You don't." His eyes, weary and concerned, begged understanding. "You can't. What you've experienced at the hands of Death Eaters, it's all been physical or indirect. He was in their hands for_ months_. They tend to get creative after a while."

Harry glanced over his shoulder to check that the kitchen door was still closed, then motioned Draco into the sitting room.

"What happened, Draco?"

Draco ran his fingers through his hair, causing it to fall forward into his eyes, before leaning his forehead on the palm of his hand, eyes closed. When he finally opened them again, his exhaustion was apparent in the dark circles under his eyes.

"I don't know all of it, but I do know that at some point, they killed another prisoner and transfigured him to he looked like George. They left the body in the cell with him for days." He must have seen the look on Harry's face, the confusion at what such an act would bring about. "He thought it was Fred. For the longest time, he thought Fred's body was rotting in the cell with him."

Harry stared at him in stunned silence.

"But from the way you talked- Did you lie then?"

"Let's just say, I was selective. I don't know what he'll be like when he's rescued, and I don't know what he'll be like a week or a month after that. Just- just be ready for that."

"Harry!" Ron's voice floated through the door. You in there?"

"Yeah, Ron. I'll be right there." He heard Ron move back into the kitchen, then turned back to Draco. "Be careful." Draco nodded and pulled the hood up o it hid his face. "And Draco, get some sleep. You look like hell."

"I'll sleep when this is over." The door opened and Draco slipped out in silence.

Harry's response was a tired grin.

"That's my line, idiot."


	5. Chapter 5

Two weeks later:

A cloaked figure ran down the corridors of Domus Divereor, deftly avoiding the other Death Eaters who rushed in the opposite direction. His grey eyes focused forward, not even wasting time to glimpse through the doors of so many open cells. He knew what they would see, and there was no time to waste. Reaching number 73, he unlocked the door and slid inside, closing the door behind him.

Hypersensitive to all the sounds coming from the corridor, Draco Malfoy crept to where Weasley was hanging. His head hung limply forward; his body was absolutely still. Draco examined the man closely, looking especially at the wound on his left thigh. It wasn't deep, but it had festered in the few days since Draco had last been in here. There was, no doubt, a serious infection there. That on top of the other injuries he had sustained during his stay in Domus Divereor would make this escape difficult. Most likely, George would not be able to stand on it without help, let alone run. Draco reached up and rested the palm of his hand against the prisoner's forehead, then tore it away quickly. He was burning up.

"Weasley! Weasley!" he hissed, trying hard not to alert anyone who might still be nearby. "George!"

George's head jerked up and turned in the direction of Draco's voice. With his eyes open, he looked even worse than the last time Draco had seen him. The capillaries in his right eye had burst, covering the glassy white surface in a film of blood. His face was swollen.

"Wh-who's th-there?"

The stuttering had been present since Draco had first found him, but it seemed to have worsened in the last month. He winced internally at the sound of it, knowing exactly how the condition had developed.

Damn the Ministry for taking so long to approve this raid.

"Hold still." Draco reached up and released George's wrists, causing him to fall to his feet, his knees crumpling under him and spilling him against Draco, who caught him and lowered him to the cell floor so he was leaning against a wall. Draco knelt beside him and produced several vials from his robes, more gifts from Snape, and pressed them into Weasley's hand. "You have to drink this. It'll numb the pain."

"I c-can't- m-move."

The Death Eater took the vial back, removed the stopper and pushed it to George's lips, but his eyes had fluttered shut.

"Weasley!" The eyes flew open again. "This little fireworks display was put on for your benefit. Let's not sleep through it. Now drink!" He tipped the end of the vial up, emptying the contents into his mouth and down his chin. Draco placed the empty vial back into his pocket and opened another.

"W-w-w-what's h-h-h-?" George tried to ask weakly. The sound of battle had become apparent even to his ears.

"Ministry raid," Draco answered shortly. "This is your rescue, but we need to move you. The Death Eaters have started killing the prisoners. This one," he said, indicating another vial, "will give you strength enough to get away." He fed the second vial to him and waited several seconds for it to take affect. Then, he gripped George under his arms and lifted him to his feet where he swayed unsteadily. He probably needed some time to get his bearings again, but another explosion shook the foundations of the fortress. They had to get moving.

"I c-c-c-can't f-f-feel my arms."

"It's okay. Your blood just needs to circulate." He opened his cloak and pulled black Death Eater robes from beneath it. "These will make you blend in," he said, wrapping them around the numb prisoner and fastening them in the front. "I'm going to move you to a safer spot, but you have to act like an injured Death Eater. Do not say anything."

"Wh-what ab-bout-?"

"Spit it out, Weasley."

"Oth-th-ther p-pr-?"

"It's too late for the others, Draco answered solemnly. "Most of the other prisoners are already dead."

The body beside him slumped, causing Draco to stumble a little under the added weight.

"Weasley, now is not the time for your _depression_," he hissed. "We need to move!"

Legs began to move, and though they could not completely support the weight, George was soon out of the cell for the first time in- he'd have to ask how long he'd been there. Time moves differently when there are no windows, and visitors come at all times.

"Malfoy!" Draco stiffened, then turned, peering over his shoulder as he surreptitiously slid his wand out from under his cloak with his left hand. His right arm tightened around George's waist.

"What is it, Stenson?"

Another cloaked figure jogged up to him, the side of his face swollen and bleeding as his eyes darted interestedly over Draco and the injured Death Eater he carried.

"The wards have fallen! Aurors are all over the place!"

"I'm aware of the situation," Draco countered with a smoothness that would have made Snape proud. "We're heading to the apparition point now."

"Who-?" Stenson reached forward to peer under George's hood and gasped, obviously recognizing the prisoner, but Draco reacted quickly.

"_Avada Kedavra_." Stenson slumped to the ground. With a quick glance up and down the corridor to be sure there had been no witnesses, Draco levitated him into George's empty cell and locked the door. At least if someone checked, there would be a body to be counted. Weasley said nothing as they continued again, more slowly than Draco had planned. Even with the revitalizing potion, Weasley was stumbling, the tremors of his body apparent to Draco even through their cloaks.

Shouts were heard farther down the corridor. The sounds of the battle were getting nearer.

At this rate, the battle would soon be upon them.

It was enough that George had been removed from his cell before the retreating Death Eaters could kill him. If the Aurors had made it this far into the fortress, then the day had been lost for the Death Eaters. Defeat was at hand, and Weasley was safe, albeit, only semiconscious from the sudden extra weight on his shoulder.

A whimper Draco recognized all too well escaped the lips of the man hanging off his shoulder.

"Come on, Weasley," he murmured, pulling him along the corridor. "I need you to keep it together. Just a little while longer."

At the end of the cell block, Draco pushed open the last door. It was a guards' room, completely abandoned in the attack. He eased Weasley down against the wall, then squatted to check him one last time before leaving him behind. Hazel eyes peered at him through half-lids.

"I have to escape with the others. Don't worry. Potter will look for you. He'll find you. Weasley!" George's eyes had begun to drift shut again. Hazel eyes shot open again. "Keep your eyes open! You have to stay awake until they find you.

"The Aurors are nearby, so you're going to be okay. Potter's with them. He'll find you here," he repeated, glancing toward the door at the sound of feet running past and praying he was not too late to save himself. "Just don't get yourself killed before they find you. Got it?"

"Th-thanks, Dr-aco."

"Yeah," he answered, turning toward the door and peering out. Aurors were just making their way into the corridor. Readying his wand for a fight, Draco spared one last glance at the life he had managed to save, then dashed for his own freedom, firing stunners over his shoulder as he did so.

From inside the room, George could distantly hear shouts and the sound of spells ricocheting off walls. Feet echoed as they ran past the room where he sat, too weak to even crawl to the door. All he could do was wait. Once the prison was secured, they would check it room by room. He just had to wait.

* * *

"I can only make out a few of these words," Hermione announced, setting her quill on the table and tiredly rubbing her eyes.

"Whoever wrote this had an amazing control of ancient languages," Bill said, leaning across the wood table to look at what she had decoded. "Between you, me, and Snape, we have all the major ones covered, but I don't recognize any of this section. I can't even tell you what it is, let alone translate it." His eyes traveled down the paper, stopping halfway down. "These symbols look Hebrew, but I don't recognize the word."

"It's Aramaic, and unfortunately, I don't know more than a few words."

"How do you know?"

"I recognize this," she said, pointing at a small word. "It's pronounced 'sabakh.'" She sighed, leaning back in her chair. "And it's a good guess, at best- just something I remembered seeing once: 'Eloi, Eloi, lama sabakh'thani?' Translated, it means, 'God, my God, why have you forsaken me?' It's Christ's last words on the cross."

"Oh." Bill leaned back as well, suddenly hit by a chill. He couldn't explain it. He hadn't been raised with any kind of religious background, though he knew it was not unheard of in the magical world, but something about this was freaking him out.

The kitchen door squeaked open. Ron stalked in and dropped himself into the chair beside Hermione and sighed.

"The prison is being raided as we speak," he announced softly, eyeing Fred as his brother silently made his way to the sink and filled a glass of water. They had been worried about the twin since George's death, but since learning he was still alive, new life seemed to return to Fred as well. At least, until the raid had begun. Now, he was simply going through the motions. And since returning to the Headquarters from Hogwarts, Ron had been uncharacteristically quiet. Hermione honestly didn't know if the family could survive losing another family member. They certainly weren't taking well to not being part of the raid, or rescue party, as they thought of it, but Harry and Kingsley both assured them that it was impossible. The Order was not large enough to take on a large fortress on its own, and if they were to use Aurors, as they needed to, it had to be a Ministry affair. That didn't persuade Ron and Fred very easily, and an argument had broken out just before the Aurors left to join up with their men. Since then, Fred and Ron had been moping.

"Have you reached Ginny?" Hermione asked, touching Ron lightly on the shoulder.

"I talked to her this morning." He sighed again, running a hand through his long red hair. "She wanted to come back, but I told her to stay. Her meeting with the Romanian ambassador is too important. She'll come back as soon as it's over."

Fred moved toward the table, sitting beside Bill, but said nothing, just stared at the glass of water he sat on the table, watching as the drops of condensation rolled down the side, gathering more drops as they fell to form a small puddle at the base. In an attempt to steer the men in the room from morose thoughts and worry for their brother, Hermione turned back to Bill, who had also fallen silent.

"I think I might know someone who can help us with this," she said. "I work with her in the DoM, and she has excellent knowledge of ancient languages."

"Can she be trusted?"

"I think so. She's Chris's sister."

"Alden?" Hermione nodded. "We'll talk to him first," Bill continued. "There might be a reason his sister isn't already a part of the Order. Then we'll run it by Harry and McGonagall."

Hermione nodded again, turning back toward the scroll. After several seconds of silence, Ron surprised her by taking her hand in his under the table and squeezing it, as though needing reassurance from her.

"I wish I knew what was going on right now," he whispered.

* * *

Aurors Potter and Shacklebolt made their way into the lower cell block where Draco had reported George was being held. Clumps of Aurors were working their way through the cells, but all their faces were grim. Shacklebolt, the acting Head of the Auror Division approached the closest of those searching the cells.

"Were any of them alive?" Shacklebolt asked Bremmer, a stout veteran who had given Harry a hard time early on, but now, well, at least he didn't treat him like a child anymore.

"Prisoners? We found six, all down at that end. Looks like the Death Eaters made their way through most of the cells before we got them." He spat heavily on the ground. "Sixty-three prisoners, and only six survived. Nasty business."

"Where are they?" Kingsley asked.

"Already moved them to Mungo's. They were all in bad shape. I wouldn't be surprised if a few more died just from their injuries." He removed a piece of parchment and handed it over, yelling at another young Auror and stalking away as soon as the paper was out of his hand. Shacklebolt glanced down at the list and handed it over to Harry.

"He's not on there," he said gravely before Harry even had a chance to look over it.

George was not among the survivors.

The parchment clenched in his hand, Harry began walking toward George's cell. He had to be sure before he could tell his best friend-. He just had to be absolutely sure. His feet carried him past open doors where bodies were being identified and covered until he came to cell 73. A team of Aurors was already inside. Harry could hear them from where he stopped just outside the door. Did he really want to do this? Did he want to see?

"Potter!"

Although the attack had been staged by the Aurors, a team of Unspeakables had the task of search the premises. Harry and the other Aurors were resigned to basically guard duty. He nodded to Chris Alden, another Auror who served the Order, who had the task of searching the fallen Death Eaters to figure out which were stupefied and which were truly dead. Privately, he was also keeping an eye out in case Draco had been left behind. Chris's pale blue eyes were completely devoid of emotion. Harry recognized the look instantly. Shacklebolt had told him. He and the twins had become very good friends since leaving Hogwarts, and he had not reacted well when George had been reported dead.

"This was George's cell," Harry said solemnly as they came up beside him.

A door slammed and all three looked up as another Death Eater was bodily carried from a room farther down the corridor. From the looks of it, he had not come out of the battle unscathed. When he and the two Aurors carrying him disappeared from view, Chris spoke.

"Stay here. I'll check." He disappeared into the room, and a moment later, the two Aurors who had been working in the room appeared and moved on. Harry heard the movement of feet inside, the rustle of cloth being removed.

"Harry?" A pregnant pause. "Get in here."

Steeling himself, Harry walked into the cell, noticing that Chris's position hid the face from his position, and for that, Harry was grateful.

"Your informant said George was being held in cell 73, right?"

"Yeah."

"You're positive? Cell 73?"

"Yeah. Why?"

Chris stood up, revealing the face of the corpse.

"Because this is most definitely not George Weasley."

The body was a tall, thin boy of barely eighteen. Brown hair was matted down on his blood-covered face, but Chris was right. This was not George.

"Check the other cells," Shacklebolt told them. "Do it quietly. Find out if he's down here."

In half an hour, they had quickly checked each cell. The fifty-seven bodies they checked were all male, all between the ages of eighteen and forty, and all carrying the signs of torture and malnourishment, but none of them were even the right build for George, even taking into account the months he had been captive.

"Someone missing?" Bremmer asked, drawing Harry's attention back to him. "I'd check up in the pens." He referred to the area of the Great Room where a handful of captured Death Eaters were being held. "I'm sure they could tell you if this supposed prisoner is dead or not."

Harry nodded and followed Shacklebolt, who had apparently thought of that before Bremmer had mentioned it and was already moving toward the stairs. Chris followed, though none of them spoke. The stairs twisted around and around, quite serpent-like and emitted them into the Hall.

The Great Room was at the rear of the Hall, where, in happier times of balls and parties, guests might have dined before dancing. Now, the light of the high windows barely filled the room, as though straining against the darkness of the crimes that had taken place here. Shadows thrived in the corners, avoiding the invasion of light. Several top Aurors were giving orders and collecting information, and near the back, the prisoners were held within full sight and guard of their captors.

In the low light of the shade, he could make out six figures. Four knelt on the ground with, from all appearances, their arms pinioned behind their backs. The one on the left must have been injured or exhausted, because instead of holding his head up haughtily as was custom when Death Eaters were caught, this prisoner's chin was nearly to his chest, and his upper body swayed unsteadily.

The other two figures stood guard over the Death Eaters, their wands drawn and trained steadily.

"Anyone we know?" Shacklebolt asked another senior-Auror. Harry eyed the prisoners being guarded by two fully trained Aurors. Must have been someone dangerous or well-known. Draco, perhaps?

"Not particularly." The man glanced over his shoulder at the prisoners. "The two on the right are young and stupid. They froze up when they saw us coming. Neither of them are older than nineteen or twenty."

"And the other one?"

"Found him in a guard room in the dungeons. Didn't put up a fight. Older, maybe mid to late twenties, but we haven't identified him yet. His speech isn't real clear. Studders real bad. Keeps talking about finding hair."

"Hair?" Shacklebolt glanced at Harry, then began walking toward the prisoner without a word. Harry fell into step beside him.

"What's up?" Harry asked, recognizing the focused look in Kingsley's eyes. He glanced back at Chris, and found he was watching them carefully.

"Think about it, Potter," the Senior Auror said, his eyes trained forward. "A Death Eater is left behind, doesn't put up any kind of fight, needing to find Hair?" He glanced at the young Auror. "Harry?"

"You think he's looking for me?"

"I do."

As Harry and Shacklebolt drew nearer, Harry focused on the prisoner. Was it Malfoy? He saw that the kneeling figure wore black robes, the hood had been pulled back, his mask removed, but his features were difficult to make out in the darkness of the room. The hair was too dark to be Malfoy, unless he had bathed in dirt before the raid. The prisoner slumped farther forward, nearly falling over had one of his guards not grabbed a handful of his robes, pulling him upright. The other trained his wand on him.

The prisoner's head came up, then lolled to the side.

Harry broke into a run as Shacklebolt shouted for the guard to put away his wand. The two men looked startled to find Potter sprinting toward them and Shacklebolt yelling at them to put away their only weapons. So startled, indeed, that the Auror who had been holding the prisoner upright, let go. The prisoner swayed, then fell forward.

Harry caught him by the shoulders.

"George!" he cried, lowering himself to George's level, attempting to rouse him, but the Weasley twin slumped forward. "Free his hands!" Shacklebolt was beside him now, guiding George to the ground now that the binds had been removed from his wrists. "George! George, wake up!" Harry told him, tapping his cheeks. George's eyes fluttered open.

"Har- Har-ry?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"W-wan- go home." He fell unconscious.

"Get him to St. Mungo's, now!" Shacklebolt ordered. "Potter, go with him. Alden!"

Chris was only a few steps behind, having hurried over as soon as he heard Harry yelling. They gripped George under the arms and began carrying him toward the apparition barrier.


	6. Chapter 6

There was little about the flat or its leasee that drew much attention. The one bedroom apartment was kept neat, despite the amazing number of antiques filling its space. Noise never permeated the walls, and neighbors never had reason to complain. Bills were always paid on time if not, if the leasee would be out of town for long spans, several weeks early.

And while the leasee rarely spoke to or was rarely seen by his neighbors, he was ever polite on the rare occasion that he was encountered in the hallways.

So it was that if his front door had been open when the leasee suddenly appeared in his flat, as though dropped directly from the air, he might have attempted to cover the pain he felt. Instead, he instantly bent forward gasping and choking as though a grip on his throat had only just been released. Unsteady fingers tore at the white mask covering his face and the clasp at his throat, but even as they fell away, the coughing merely lessened, but did not subside.

With a shaking hand on the mahogany desk dating from Louis XII, the figure attempted to make his way into the kitchen for water, but stumbled, barely able to catch himself with a hand on the wall. He rested a moment there, with a whispered swear, but the coughing began again.

Two steps. Three steps.

Dots danced.

The floor twisted.

Again, the hand shot out toward the counter, but found nothing under the fingertips. The body fell forward toward his knees, but the force of the marble countertop, seeming to suddenly reappear out of nowhere, knocked his head backward, spilling him unconscious onto the cold, tiled floor.

A small trickle of blood crept out from under the pale blond hair, drawing a crimson line across his forehead.

* * *

Five hours after Chris had contacted them that George was freed, Fred sat on the floor in the hallway of St. Mungo's, his arms folded across his legs, his face buried in his arms. Hermione sat beside him, leaning back against the wall, rubbing gentle circles on his back in an attempt to give comfort where none could be found. Her eyes flickered up to Ron, who sat across the way. When he caught her gaze, she gave him a small smile, which he weakly returned.

Bill paced by, his face grim, his arms folded across his chest, waiting, like the rest of them, for news from the Healers. Fleur entreated him to sit, but he couldn't. He didn't like feeling helpless. He had to feel like he was doing something, even if it was nothing. As he walked by Ron, he placed a hand on his shoulder, then continued on as though it hadn't happened.

They had known it would be like this. Draco had said that George was injured, and they all expected to be sitting at St. Mungo's while they patched him back together, but somehow that knowledge hadn't prepared them for the intensity of the injuries, for the length of time they would be sitting in the hallway. They had been through this before with other Order members, with their own father years ago, waiting for word from Healers, hoping it was good news. But with George, it was hard to celebrate his freedom when it was unknown whether or not he would survive his injuries.

Harry sat a few feet away, his eyes focused on some spot in the middle of the floor. Chris sat beside him, just as silent as the Boy Who Lived, but his head was leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed. He had said very little to the others after calling them to the hospital. There was little to say. The mission was a success. George was out. Did they need to know the conditions he had been kept in? Was it necessary to convey to them the horrific smells from the cells or how long it had been since George had seen light? Did they need to know how close he had come to death?

The door to George's room opened and an Assistant Healer stepped out. She seemed surprised at first at the faces gathered around, even staring longer than necessary at Fred, as though surprised to find a face identical to that of the patient, waiting in the hallway. She hesitated a moment, swallowed, then spoke.

"The healers should be out in a moment. Healer Parsons will be able to answer any questions you have." She hesitated a moment, then, as though speaking directly to Fred added, "Is there anything I can get for you?"

Fred shook his head, then lowered it again to his arms. Bill walked down the corridor a few steps, speaking quietly with the AH, but she had nothing more to tell them. He returned and dropped heavily into the empty chair next to Fleur, who automatically wrapped her arms around him.

It was nearly an hour later before the door to George's room opened and a line of healers silently exited, their eyes trained either on the floor or straight ahead. Those who did look at the family gathered outside were kind enough to offer small smiles, but not enough to comfort.

At last, a tall elderly man with well-combed silver hair and a perfectly manicured beard stepped out, pulling the door closed behind him. Blue-gray eyes regarded the gathered family for a moment, before he reached up and removed his glasses, taking a moment to clean them on his robes before replacing them on his nose.

"Are you his family?"

"Yes," Bill answered. "How's George?"

The healer smiled kindly. He was used to this brusque manner from those waiting to hear of their loved ones.

"George is resting now. His injuries were quite severe. We did what we could with potions and magic, but the number and severity of his injuries make it impossible to take care of everything at one time. We're allowing him to rest and regroup, and over the course of the next few days, we will continue to help him."

"So he's going to make it?" Ron piped up hopefully, grasping Hermione's hand in his own.

The old man was silent for a moment, considering Ron's question. "Any physical injuries he has sustained which could be deemed life threatening have been or are being treated." He trailed off, seeing clearly the face identical to his patient. "I won't lie to you. Your brother is in very bad shape. If he had remained in that condition a week, even a few days longer, I'm afraid the news would be very different. As it is, yes, he should survive; however, in cases as bad as his, it is often up to the patient whether or not he will live."

"How bad?" Fred managed to croak.

The healer suddenly looked much older now. He was silent for a long time, but when the family began to feel he might not answer, he spoke up.

"Mr. Weasley has suffered from severe dehydration and malnutrition. These we are treating with various nourishing potions. He was also brought to us with several broken bones. Those have been set, but because his body is so weak, they will not be healed until George has had some time to recover from tonight. There will be some long-term effects on his body, but as to the severity of those, it is hard to say at this moment." There was a pregnant pause before the Healer added, "I know your family has always been near the frontlines of this war," he said, glancing briefly at Harry and Chris. "And I am sure I do not have to explain in too much detail the affects of torture on the body and mind. From all evidence, the patient has suffered for some time."

"Nearly ten months," Fred whispered.

Healer Parsons nodded.

"Ten months," he answered back softly, "is a long time to suffer as he has. It will be some time before he recovers, if he does at all. I am afraid I can't let you see him tonight. Tomorrow, perhaps," he added hastily, seeing the looks on the family's faces. "That said, I suggest you all go home and get some rest tonight. There's nothing more that can be done here." He laid a paternal hand on Fred's shoulder. "You'll need your strength when he wakes. _He'll_ need your strength." With a final squeeze of the shoulder, the Healer headed down the corridor, away from George's room and the small gathering.

"I'm staying." Nobody looked surprised that Fred would stay. Instead, they nodded, knowing he would not rest back at the Headquarters anyway.

"I'll stay with you," Ron offered, but Fred shook his head.

"No. You have to teach tomorrow, Ron. And I'm sure you guys have reports to file," he said, looking toward the two aurors. "I'll keep an eye on George."

"You're sure, Fred? We could all stay."

"I'm sure. I'll contact you if anything happens." There was a little more protest that the others wanted to stay as well, but it didn't take long for Fred to talk them into going. George was their brother too, and they had every right to stay as well, but Fred didn't want them there. A large group was too noticeable. As soon as the last of the loiterers were gone, Fred leaned against the wall, glancing surreptitiously down both ends. Sure nobody was paying even the slightest attention, he turned the knob to George's room and slid inside.

He found himself standing in the dark several feet from the curtains that hid his twin from view of the corridor. He lit his wand, took a few deep breaths to steady himself, prepare himself for what he was about to see, and strode forward, slipping clandestinely through an opening, as though afraid of waking George.

Those deep breaths were not enough to prepare him.

Fred approached the bed holding his wand aloft and looked down into the battered face of his twin, looking over the barely mended cuts and scrapes, taking note of the pale pallor and the bones jutting out from under his too thin skin. His body was covered with a white sheet and pale blue blanket, covering everything but up to his shoulders, leaving his thin bruised left arm to lay limply in view, while his right was hidden by a sling, revealing only his bony fingers. No injury escaped his notice and was forever etched into his mind.

In silence, he watched the slow rise and fall of his chest. Gently, he reached out, taking George's left hand as he had done so many times when bets had been made or deals struck, for this was one such moment.

"I'm sorry, George," he whispered, not for fear of disturbing the patient, but for the blockage in his throat, a lump making it difficult to swallow or speak. "I'm sorry." His voice shook, but he continued, needing to say the words that had been in his mind since he had fallen to his knees before their burning shop. "I- I'm sorry I asked you to close up. I should have done it myself, but-." He took a deep breath, wiping furiously at the tears rolling down his freckled cheeks. "You could have died, and it would have been my fault. I thought you-. All this time, I thought-." It seemed impossible to vocalize what he had been feeling all this time. "I swear, George- I swear I'll protect you from now on. Jus- Just-." The trembling of his jaw, the rawness in his throat made his next words difficult.

"You have to wake up George. You have to be okay. I'll never make it without you. You're the logical one. You have to keep me out of trouble." His voice caught again. Furious at his own weakness, he buried his face in his hands, trying to control himself. Finally, with a deep calming breath, he looked up again. "You're my best friend, and you're my brother. You can't leave me without saying goodbye. Not again. Do you hear me? YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO…." He stopped, his eyes wide, realizing for the first time what he was about to say. Fred closed his eyes, as though not wanting to see his bother as he looked now for what he was about to say. "The healers said it's all up to you, George. You can't die on me. Not on any of us. We've lost too many Weasleys already. You are not allowed to die."

* * *

Severus Snape knocked at the door of Draco's flat, steadfastly ignoring the Muggle who lived across the hallway as the old man stared at him while locking his own door. There was nothing out of place about Snape. He was dressed exactly as he should be to blend in with the entirely non-magical building, but he knew Draco rarely, if ever, had visitors at this address, and when he did, they were closer to his age than was Snape.

No answer came, which worried Snape. Draco had not seemed himself when he had seen him after the raid on Domus Devreor. He had been pale and drawn even before the Dark Lord made his feelings known on the whole botched affair, and by the end of the meeting, the boy was downright unsteady on his feet, misstepping just slightly as he disapparated after their dismissal without so much as a glance at anyone else. Snape had been worried the boy would splinch himself, but luckily, no body parts had been left behind, but the boy's apparition barrier was not keyed to allow anyone but Draco enter in that way, so it had been impossible to follow directly after him. It had only been an hour since the boy had disappeared so suddenly, but he was not answering the door. He was not foolish enough to go to Headquarters so directly after a meeting, and yet he was not answering his door.

"Have you seen the boy who lives here?" he suddenly asked the old man, causing the man to drop his keys.

"Mr. Malfoy? I haven't seen him in maybe a week." Snape turned away from him, but the man continued talking, possibly emboldened by Snape's willingness to converse. "But then, I don't usually see him much. We have different schedules, you see? Sometimes in the hallway, but he's usually leaving when I come home. I work late down at the office. Good kid, though. Very quiet."

"Thank you," Snape said, cutting off the man's words. He slipped his wand just far enough from his jacket to point it at the lock while his other hand covered the door knob.

"How'd you do that?" the man asked as Snape opened the door.

"Spare key," he answered curtly, stepping into the apartment. "Draco?" The sound of his call floated out to the old man just as the door closed.

The foyer was orderly and neat, just as Snape expected from his young godson. Draco had always been just as immaculate in his space as he was in his dress, which was why it was rather worrisome to find his cloak and mask simply dropped in the living room. Something had happened.

Drawing his wand, Snape, pressed his back against the wall and listened acutely for any sign of an intruder. Wary of drawing attention to his own presence, he slid to his right, intent on checking the flat from the front to the back. The living room and foyer were obviously clear. The next open room was the kitchen, then Draco's bedroom. Hearing nothing to indicate anyone was in that room, he glanced around the corner and found a foot encased by a very expensive shoe. Draco.

Slipping around the corner, he knelt swiftly beside the boy and felt for a pulse, still listening carefully for the sounds of anyone else in the flat. Finding what he was searching for in the heartbeat of the young man, Severus rose and continued deeper into the flat, opening doors to the bedroom, bathroom, and pantry. Finding nobody, he returned to Draco.

* * *

It was after midnight when the hallway again began to fill. Ron was the first to appear. He had gone back to the school with Hermione, but as soon as she had gone home, he had gone to speak with McGonagall then come straight back. He wasn't surprised to see that Fred was nowhere to be seen, though the notion that he was gone home never touched his brain. He knew his brother had slipped into the room as soon as the hall was clear. Nor was he surprised when Bill reappeared half an hour later, looking tired but carrying two paper cups of coffee.

"Fleur finally fell asleep," was all he said as he sat down.

"You weren't planning on telling me you were coming back?"

"You found your way here, didn't you?" Bill handed him a cup and sipped his own. "I figured you'd be here. Did Fred slip inside?"

"I think so."

"Ginny here yet?"

"No. I think Harry was going to find her."

Bill nodded with a sad smile, and they fell into silence. There wasn't much to be said tonight. Their minds were shared between their family on the other side of that door and those they had already lost. Three Weasleys had been lost in this war, both their parents and Charlie, and neither Bill nor Ron wanted to lose another.

When Harry and Chris arrived back, it was to two men alone in their thoughts. They simply sat beside them in silence for several minutes before Bill spoke up.

"Did you find Ginny, Harry?"

"No." He was exhausted, having spent the entire day participating in the raid, sitting here waiting to hear about George, and searching for Ginny to bring her back. "I left a message at her flat. Did Fred sneak in?"

"Think so," Ron answered.

The four men leaned back and fell once again into silence. When Hermione appeared near two, none seemed surprised to see her, nor did she appear surprised to see them sitting outside George's door when they all had said they were going home, and had even walked out with her. Harry moved to the other side of Chris so she could sit next to Ron where she wrapped her arms around him and laid her head on his shoulder.

They waited.

* * *

Snape leaned against the bureau in Draco's bedroom, pinching the bridge of his nose as an irate Narcissa Malfoy continued to rage against Draco's choice to move into this hovel and Snape's refusal to move him back to the manor.

"Narcissa, Draco was not attacked," he repeated calmly as she paused for breath. "He's simply exhausted and ill. What he needs is to rest. Moving him at this point is not a healthy option for him."

"He's a pureblood! We do not fall ill as easily -."

"But he is still human," he said, cutting her off gently. "Draco has merely been over-worked and has not been taking care of himself."

"Which is why he should be moved back home!"

"I am sure he would disagree with you if he could."

"How dare you!"

"Narcissa, I will stay here and take care of him, if it will set your mind at ease. However, keep in mind that this tirade is not helping him rest. I must insist you keep your voice down."

"He is _my_ son, Severus Snape. Don't forget that."

"I haven't forgotten. However, I am under obligation to see him protected, as I am sure you haven't forgotten." She narrowed her eyes at him, but he ignored it. "I assure you, he will be up and around in a few days. Now, I suggest you inform your husband what has happened. There are _others_ who will be waiting for him, and they are not the type to be kept waiting."

This reminder caused Narcissa Malfoy to pale, if such a thing were possible with her coloring.

"Of course. Thank you, Severus. I forgot myself for a moment."

"He's your son, Narcissa. I understand."

Calmed, she reached down and touched her son's cheek with her hand, then made her way out of the room without so much as a glance at the man who would be taking care of her son. The crack of her apparition told Snape that she was gone.

"I swear, Draco," he murmered, looking toward the bed where the young man was laid out with his blanket pulled clear up to his chin. "You will be the death of me."

* * *

Fred had fallen asleep where he was, his arms folded on the edge of the bed, his face buried in the crook of his elbow. He had sat next to his brother's still body for what felt like hours, awaiting some movement, some sign that George was wakening, but none came.

It was, then, a great surprise when the mattress under his arms began to move, and Fred's head shot up, all evidence of exhaustion fleeing his eyes in the hopes that George was finally awake. Horror, instead, filled his visage.

George lay rigid on the bed, his fists clenched in his blankets, face twisted with a pained grimace. Every muscle in his body appeared to be tensed, but most frightening, he didn't appear to be breathing. Instinctively, Fred grabbed his shoulders, trying to shake him awake.

"George? Wake up, mate! Wake up!" Desperate, Fred ran to the door and screamed out for someone to help him, but in the seconds it took him to yell for help and return, his brother's face was turning blue from lack of oxygen, and his fists began to shake, still clutching the blanket. "Breathe, damn it! George, you have to breathe!" Even when someone grabbed him from behind and attempted to drag him from the bed so the healers could examine George, Fred kept his eyes trained on his brother's face until he was forced out the door into the hallway.

"Fred, what's going on?"

He thought it was Ron who asked, though it could have been Bill's voice if he had just wakened. He didn't know because he couldn't bring himself to look as he slid his back down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, once again burying his face in his arms.


	7. Chapter 7

Ron awoke slowly, cursing a night spent in plastic hospital chairs, and carefully began stretching his limbs. Hermione had spent the night next to him, her head bowed against his shoulder until she'd left to get ready for work an hour earlier. (At least, he thought she did. He only vaguely remembered her kissing him goodbye.) Thank the gods Minerva had told him to take some time off. He couldn't imagine trying to go teach after spending the night here.

Harry and Chris had disappeared, probably back to the Ministry. Ron wasn't sure when exactly they had disappeared, but he was pretty sure they were still there when Hermione had left. At least, he thought he had heard their voices. Bill, however, had claimed the vacated chairs and was currently sprawled out on them, snoring softly.

And then he spied Fred sitting on the floor across the hallway, his knees pulled up, his arms folded across them, staring into space and looking as though he hadn't closed his eyes all night.

"You all right, mate?"

Fred looked over at him and nodded once. That was all the response he seemed to be capable of.

"Have the healers come back yet?"

A small shake of the head.

Ron sighed.

"Look, I think the Tea Room is open. Why don't you come get some coffee with me?"

Fred merely stared ahead, as though he hadn't even heard his brother.

"Fred?" Bill's eyes opened, but he said nothing- merely met Ron's eyes and looked over at their brother, waiting for some kind of response.

He hadn't really expected Fred to comply, but Fred slowly pushed himself off the floor and stood waiting silently, as though unable to move without someone to tell him where to go.

Bill sat up, worry creasing his brow, but Ron waved him off and took Fred's elbow to lead him toward the Tea Room. He hoped to Merlin everything would he okay.

* * *

Entering and leaving the Department of Mysteries had always made Hermione nervous, as did certain areas she had glimpsed through the few years she had worked there. Early on, memories of her first horrific visit here plagued her, bringing to mind the fight for her and her classmates' lives at the end of their fifth year. Now, it only brought a queasiness to her stomach as she stepped into the Whirling Room. She closed her eyes as the walls began to spin, attempting to calm herself from the feeling of claustrophobia. She hated this trapped feeling, fearing for a few seconds that none of the doors would open for her, or perhaps the wrong one, leading her to one of those halls that had appeared in her nightmares so often during her last years at school.

The correct door always opened for her, of course, recognizing her as a member of the staff assigned to the Ancient Artifact Department. Hermione made her way down the hallway, finding herself breathing a little easier to be out of that room, and headed down to the Cloak Room to store her personal items before heading into the Acquisitions Corridor where current research was being done. It wasn't a corridor persay, more of a grand hall on par with the Versailles Hall of Mirrors: a vast room where ancient treasures were categorized and stored awaiting research to unlock its history and secrets.

When Hermione had first been assigned here, it had every appearance of an abandoned warehouse with piles unrecognizable under layers of dust. There was only one other employee down here, who had been assigned the year before Hermione, and in that year had made little headway with the artifacts, but had redesigned the cataloguing process, allowing for a much faster way to research and even cross-categorize items, whereas before, all research was done by flipping through thousand page tomes that were in no real order at all but the random order that the categorizer had picked up the artifacts to write about.

Now, nearly five years later, all the catalogues had been transferred to the new system and the two researchers had actually begun cleaning, researching, and storing the items in the room. Though she had been optimistic when first entering this corridor, Hermione now began to feel that she had been placed here in the hopes that she would inhale too much dust and die in the basement of the Ministry, never to be heard from again. The only thing that staved that irrational fear from taking over was the fact that Maggie was stuck down here too. But then again, Maggie had apparently requested this particular dark corner of the earth, while Hermione had been assigned, most likely by some higher up who resented her involvement in the party of school children who had broken into one of the more impenetrable places in the Wizarding government at the tender age of sixteen.

With a sigh, Hermione made her way down the corridor, her sneakers making the trek to the end nearly silent. She had long ago given up at dressing professionally for work. Too many outfits were covered in cobwebs and dirt, and skirts just did not allow for any stooping for lifting or kneeling next to large items. Instead, she found herself having become part of the very small group who wore jeans and old shirts to the Ministry… namely, herself and Maggie. Not that it mattered: no one of importance was coming down here anytime soon.

Just ahead, Hermione spotted her partner down here, clad similarly in jeans and a long-sleeved gray t-shirt. A long black ponytail hung down her back. Maggie leaned on a large chest, believed to have been owned by Clovis of France, reading the newspaper and biting into a shiny red apple.

"Morning, Maggie," Hermione greeted as she approached, only to receive a patient hand, telling her to wait.

Margaret Alden, or Maggie as her friends called her, had been an enigma to Hermione early on. She had chosen this department both for the research opportunities, which Hermione could understand, and the isolation, which was harder to understand. When she had first come here, Maggie had hardly spoken to her, which Hermione had taken to be an instant dislike, assuming she was an intellectual snob who didn't want to be bothered with conversing with others, and found herself often ignored. As time passed, she found that none of her initial impressions had been true, except for the intellectual snob part. Maggie was incredibly intelligent, had been a Ravenclaw a year ahead of herself, and couldn't abide the idea that not everyone wanted to learn simply for the sake of knowledge and understanding, mastery of the unknown. What Hermione did learn was that the reason Maggie was so incredibly quiet was because that had been her way of getting to know people. Observation. That, and a slightly low self-esteem that assumed that not everyone wanted to talk to a self-ascribed book worm who preferred talking about wizards and witches who had been dead for a hundred years rather than the latest Quidditch games. And all those times Hermione had felt ignored, Maggie had simply been enveloped in her work. She, like Hermione so many times before, allowed herself to get so caught up in her work that she failed to notice things going on around her.

At last, Maggie looked up, her dark brown eyes encircled by oval shaped lenses. She smiled, holding the apple between her teeth as she folded up the newspaper and set it aside.

"Sorry," she said at last, taking the apple out of her mouth. "You caught me in the middle of a paragraph."

"It's all right. Anything interesting in there?"

"Terrifying is more like it. There were more attacks last night." She shook her head. "This war is getting out of hand, and I don't think the Ministry has any clue what to do about it."

"You know, saying something like that could land you on the Ministry Watchlist."

"Hermione, honestly, if you were one of their lapdogs, you wouldn't be down here right now, covered in dust and fighting a losing battle with archaic catalogues and broken relics. And if they were worried about me, they wouldn't allow me into the Department of Mysteries, so I think we're safe on both fronts."

Hermione smiled at her logic. She had a way of stating her opinions as though they were so obvious, anyone should have come up with them and agreed.

"Your boyfriend's a Weasley, isn't he?" Hermione's head jerked. She had had little sleep the previous night, and Maggie's continued conversation brought her out of a momentary smiling stupor.

"Yes."

"The paper said one of You Know Who's strongholds was raided and that a Weasley was among the prisoners rescued."

"Yeah," Hermione answered. "It was Ron's brother, George." Seeing the blank look on Maggie's face, she clarified. "The Weasley twins? They were a year ahead of you."

"Right," she answered, screwing up her face. "The one's that left when that Umbridge woman took over. They're friends with my brother."

"That's them."

"Hmm. Is he all right?"

"I don't know," Hermione answered truthfully. "He's in pretty bad shape. He hadn't woken up yet when I left the hospital early this morning."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I." She smiled thinly. "He'll pull through, though. He's a Weasley." Her smile faded. She really hoped she was right about. She didn't know if Ron could take the loss of another family member. "Speaking of pulling through," she said suddenly, wanting to avoid negative thinking for at least a little while. "Where are we starting today?"

"Oh, I don't know," Maggie answered, picking up on Hermione's change. "I feel like being mocked by one dimensional images, so I think I'm going to clean some of the paintings at the end down there. See if any of them are actually important. You?"

"A little mocking would do me good."

"Excellent," Maggie replied with a smile. "A-mocking we shall go."

* * *

Draco awoke groggily, taking several seconds before he could actually open his eyes, and several seconds more to realize he was in his own bed, though he couldn't remember ever actually lying down. No, he vaguely remembered apparating home after the Dark Lord made his displeasure known for the failed defenses at Domus Devreor.

He would have shivered at the memory of last night, had his body the energy for it. As it was, his limbs felt as if they were weighed down to the bed. Too weak to move, Draco merely stared up at the ceiling, trying to piece together what had happened, when a noise from outside his bedroom door alerted him that he was not alone.

Instinct screamed at him to move, but his body refused to obey. He simply did not have the energy to do more then move his head to face whoever was coming through the door.

"Draco? What's wrong?" Snape, his hand still on the doorknob, stood in the entrance with a steaming bowl in his other hand. Draco's stomach turned at the scent of the food.

"What happened?" Was that really his voice that sounded so weak?

"I could ask you the same," came the answer as the Death Eater set the bowl on the bedside table and leaned over the young man. "I came here last night to check on you and found you collapsed on your kitchen floor." Touching his fingers to the inside of Draco's wrist, he checked his pulse before pushing Draco's eyelids up to look at his eyes. "It appears you have been quite ill, and your body finally quit on you."

"I'm sick?"

"Yes, though not dangerously so." The man smirked. "Your mother was under the impression that you were attacked."

"My mother?" In his head, he was leaping out of his bed, but all Snape saw was his head jerk. "My mother was here? In my flat?"

"Calm yourself, Draco. She was, but I convinced her to alow you to stay here to recover."

"Stay here?"

"She wanted to take you back to the manor."

Draco's face screwed up in distaste, then his mind turned to more serious matters.

"The raid?"

"Domus Devereor was taken and with it, many prisoners."

Gray eyes slid closed in relief. The Dark Lord had been unhappy that the attack had taken place, but that it had been successful- no wonder they had been punished so harshly. At least, despite his own pain, the mission was successful.

"What about-?" He did not dare to finish the question, even with his voice lowered as it was.

"I have had no contact with anyone but your mother," came the answer. "I know nothing of casualties or survivors. But for now, your health is most important. You should eat."

"I'm not hungry," came the protest, even as Snape lifted the bowl again.

"I didn't ask if you were hungry. You will eat."

* * *

"What do you think it was like for him?"

Ron looked up at Fred's sudden question. It was the first he had spoken since he had been ushered so quickly out of George's room early this morning. He hesitated by slowly sipping at his tea.

"I don't know." The younger brother didn't know how to answer. While he didn't have the answer, he had a pretty good idea. Stories of what happened in the prisons were well-known, though most of the information was obtained from dead bodies. Few prisoners ever actually found freedom. In fact, Ron only knew of seven: the seven rescued in this raid. "I think, though, that we should be prepared for anything."

Fred only made a noise in his throat in response. He had been so quiet, so _passive_ since they had learned of George's survival and captivity- it saddened Ron a little. Fred and George were always the one's who lightened the mood when things got tough, but somehow now, when it seemed laughter was needed most, it was impossible. And Ron knew it would remain so until George was out of danger.

Which brought Ron's thinking back to the near-shock state Fred had been in since his ejection from he room.

"Fred, what happened last night?"

He shook his head, not wanting to answer.

"Come on, Fred. Something had to have happened for you to act like this."

"He had a fit," Fred answered quietly, staring intently down at his drink. "He was shaking and not breathing, and I thought- I thought he was going to die right in front of me."

Ron was shocked at this, trying hard not to imagine the scene what had turned the most outgoing member of their family silent, but it was hard. Though he had not seen George since before his disappearance, in his mind, he saw him, thin, battered, and suffering a seizure. He squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to force the image from his brain.

Nearly successful, he caught his brother's gaze again.

"George is tougher than that, Fred. Do you really think he would survive all this time just to-." He took a deep breath. "He wouldn't. That's just not his way."

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking too." He fell silent, leaning his head on his hand and idly stirring the dark tea that he had yet to drink. "But, what if he's different? What if I don't know him anymore?"

It was a good question: one Ron didn't know how to answer, but he had to keep Fred's spirits up.

"Come on, this is George we're talking about."

Fred's face took on a pained look, but before he could reply, a nurse hurried up to their table.

"Mr. Weasley?"

"Yes?" The reply was in unison. The nurse stared between the two of them before addressing Fred.

"Healer Parsons sent me to find you. He wants to speak to you before you see your brother."

The words had barely tumbled from her lips before Fred's chair fell backward and he was hurrying out of the Tea Room with Ron right behind.

* * *

Hermione sat back on her heels and took a moment to examine the work she had been doing. Though her eyes took in the details of the painting, and her hand wrote down facts that might help her to identify it, her mind was elsewhere.

This war had been going strong for seven years now, though truth be told, it had been over three times that long since it had begun. Casualties were mounting, and fear seemed to be the rule. She had known many people who had been felled by a Death Eater. True, George had survived, but at what cost? From Fred's expression last night, or this morning to be accurate, he was not necessarily in one piece. And he was one of the lucky ones.

How long would they have to endure? How long would she have to worry about her friends every time they were out of sight?

"Where is this going?" she whispered out loud.

"That one? Probably back under dust." Maggie's voice came from right behind her, surprising Hermione. She whirled around to find Maggie blinking owlishly at her through her glasses. "Something wrong?"

"No, nothing. I just didn't realize you were right there."

"I've been here since we started," she pointed out slowly. "Are you sure nothing's wrong?"

"I'm sorry. I guess I was just lost in thought."

"Oh." Maggie nodded. "About George."

"About the whole war, actually. I wish- I wish we could end it. Don't you?"

"Well, of course. My brother's practically on the frontline, and he's all the family I have left." Maggie's face softened at the thought, and she appeared more human than most people ever realized. "I just- what is there for me to do? I'm not a strategist. I can't fight. I'm a researcher- a brain surrounded by bone and muscle. All I can do is let others more capable than I am fight, and I'll preserve what little history we have left."

"That's a pretty grim self-analysis."

"But it's honest." Her gaze fell to the side so she was staring at the portrait of a knight on his stamping steed. "I'm not a hero from a children's book. I'm not Dumbledore or Harry Potter or even my brother. And I accept that."

"But if you _could_ make a difference?"

"As the Bard said, 'Fight till the last gasp.'"

* * *

Fred hovered over his brother, staring in distaste at the wide leather straps that wound around his brother's chest and extremities and held him to the bed. Only his right arm was not graced with the restraint, but it was in a sling secured around his chest. A medical restraint, he had been told. Completely necessary. But he hated them. Hated that his brother was made a prisoner again by his doctors and his own family. It was for his own good, to prevent him from reinjuring himself during his "fits," but Fred couldn't help but feel that he had failed his twin in some way.

Ginny had appeared while he and Ron were in the Tea Room, and she stood silently next to him, looking as though she hadn't slept all night, her eyes shining with tears as she too looked down at the twin.

Ron and Bill stood a few feet away, talking quietly to the Healer, whose grandfatherly disposition did nothing to calm him. He was glad they were there with him, Ron and Bill, the professor and the researcher, to talk to the Healer when he could not. Somehow, standing apart and listening to the conversation rather than taking part in it made things easier for him.

"I am afraid Mr. Weasley's healing process is going to be a long and painful one." He sighed, flipping a chart open. "We've healed what we could. In a few days, his superficial injuries and malnourishment will be completely gone; the bones in his arm and shoulder have been healed, though they may be a little sore for him when he wakes. However, there have been some complications. It appears that both of his legs have been broken and healed, poorly I might add, several times. The muscles and nerves in his left leg in particular suffered the worst of the damage. We are doing all we can to repair them, but he will not walk out of here unassisted."

"What does that mean?" Bill asked, and Fred was glad he did, as his own head had begun spinning and he didn't think he'd be able to give voice to the question.

"What it means, Mr, Weasley-."

"Bill," he corrected. "Call me Bill."

"Bill, then. What it means is that the bones in his legs were crushed, and I do not mean that as a metaphor. Literally, parts of his bones were no more than fragments. Whoever attempted to heal him tried to piece the bones back together rather than removing them and regrowing new ones. From the damage, I assume he was in a great deal of pain whenever his legs moved." Bill and Ron exchanged worried looks, though Fred continued looking directly at the Healer, as though trying to read his mind. "We are regrowing the bone, of course, but the nerve damage is quite severe. Unfortunately, nerves heal very slowly, and sometimes, not at all. By the time he leaves here, if George is able to walk at all, he will not be able to do it without help."

_If he's able to walk at all? _Fred turned his gaze back to his unconscious brother. It was easy to delude himself into believing his twin would be okay when the cuts were already healing into scars and the bruising was beginning to fade, but knowing that there were deeper injuries he could not see- the possibility of coming back from this seemed daunting at best. If his body was that bad, what would his mind be like?

He felt Ginny's hand snake into his, silent but supportive. She too was listening to the conversation.

"-permanent?" It was Ron who asked this time, drawing Fred's attention back to the conversation.

"I am afraid I cannot answer that question at this moment," came the sad answer. "A great deal will depend on George, himself. We will also have to do a thorough exploration of the area, determine the severity of the damage." He rubbed his old blue eyes tiredly. "There is an experimental process we are working on. Healer Stedgewick is in charge of the project. It is very slow, but it could ease some of his future pain and give him more movement, though at this juncture, I cannot discuss it as more than a mere possibility. When he wakes, Healer Stedgewick will speak to him about the possibility."

Fred vaguely heard his brothers thank the doctor, then move to stand beside him to look down at George. He didn't look at them, but knew that they were doing as he had, seeking out every injury done to him. They were silent for a long time before Ron spoke up.

"He's gonna have a lot of scars. The ones on his face aren't too bad, but the one on his neck- it looks like he was-." Ron jumped suddenly, and Fred assumed Bill had elbowed him to get him to shut up, but Fred knew what he was going to say. He had had the same thought. It looked as though someone had tried to cut his throat.

"Scars aren't so bad," Bill finally spoke up. "After a while, you hardly notice them." Fred glanced at his brother, and realized the truth in his words. Most of the time, he forgot the wide scars that slashed across his brother's face, a gift from a sadistic werewolf still in human form.

"Do you ever forget how you got them?" Ginny asked quietly.

Bill was silent for a bit, then answered slowly, "No."

The four Weasleys fell silent. No more comment was needed on Bill's answer. They all understood the implications, but somehow saying them aloud only made them more true.


	8. Chapter 8

It wasn't odd that George couldn't remember how he had come to be unconscious in the first place, for more often than not, it was a godsend when his memory failed him, but something about it this time was out of place. Dangerously so. He felt tired, true, but he very often did when regaining consciousness after a torture session. And yet, none of the requisite pain was coursing through his body. And there had been a dream; he knew that, but could remember nothing of it. Only that it had seemed real and pleasant. Freeing. Yes, that was it. It had been some time since he'd had one of those dreams. Perhaps he was still in one? And yet he heard voices, whispers around him, as though he was dreaming, but awake at the same time.

Reality shoved itself to the forefront of his brain. Wherever he was, he was not in his cell. The sounds were too foreign. The air too warm. It was a change, and as George knew all too well, changes were bad. They were worse than bad. They usually meant screaming and scars and willing yourself not to beg for death.

Suddenly, his body became very heavy, weighing him down until he dropped heavily, and feeling seeped back into his limbs. Pain, but duller. That familiarity returned to him, blithely reminding him that once again he was not dead, and if he wanted to stay that way, he had to fight.

Instinct fisted his hands, attempting to pull them up for protection, but they could not be moved more than a few inches. Panicked, he struggled, attempting to raise himself, to fight off whoever held him. He heard shouts, and an alarm raised. Hands grabbed at him, but all attempts to pull away, to escape were eluded by those restraints. His struggle brought on more pain, in his arms, his legs, his face. Everything hurt. The voices grew louder in his ears.

"He's waking!"

"No, he's done this before. Why do you think they have him tied down?"

"I swear, I saw his eyes fluttering!"

Tied down? Bad bad bad. His struggle increased, but he was held fast. He tried to cry out, but his protests came out as whispered sobs.

"N-no… no… no!"

"There! See?"

"George? George, settle down. You're going to hurt yourself."

"Open your eyes, George. It's Fred and Ron. Open your eyes and see."

George clenched his eyes shut. He could not do this again. He had already watched his brother killed within the cell with him. Why would they try it again? But even knowing it wasn't real, he couldn't do that again. Not with Fred again. And not with Ron.

"Ron, go get the Healer!"

Footsteps pounded. A door was thrown open. Someone pressed his arm.

"Come on, George. Open your eyes."

"N-not ag-gain. P-please. Not again. "

"George," Fred's voice, sounding strained, said. "Please, I swear to you, you're safe. You're in a hospital." There was a human quality in Fred's voice that hadn't been there before. An emotion. "Just open your eyes and look. You're safe. I swear, you're safe." A hand wrapped around his, and George felt calmed a little, like he often did when Draco woke him, shaking him gently to avoid irritating any injuries, but sometimes George had imagined it was one of his brothers shaking him awake.

Could it be real this time?

Slowly, George dared to open his eyes, but found the light was too much for someone who had been in darkness for- how long?

"B-bright."

The orange light seeping through his eyelids suddenly extinguished and George was able to open his eyes a bit. He found himself looking into a pair of eyes identical to his own. The last time he had done this, looked into his twin brother's eyes, they had been dead and dull, staring aimlessly into the darkness. But now, George had no control over the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. His throat felt like it was closing, and for once, no one had their hand over it.

"F-f-f-." Dammit. Between the stutter and the emotion, he couldn't say it. George tried to wipe the tears running down his face, but realized his hands were still strapped down. He pulled at them helplessly, but they held tight.

Fred's eyes, however, seemed to be drawn to his plight.

"I can't unstrap you," he said sadly, averting his eyes from George's. "I know you hate it. I know it probably scares you, but I can't. It's for your own good."

"F-fred?"

Something seemed to break in Fred at this one word. Tears streamed down his face and his voice cracked as he wrapped an arm across the front of George's shoulders in an attempt at a hug.

"I swear, George, you're safe here. I won't let anything happen to you again. I swear. I swear."

George closed his eyes, allowing the words to sink in. He was safe. He was really out of that dungeon and in St. Mungo's, safe with his brother. Slowly, a memory faded back into his brain.

"_You know, you freak me out when you're all quiet like that. You make me think you're dead."_

_Vials and vials had been laid out before him, each to be poured down his throat._ _"I-if I d-d-die," he took a deep, calming breath, "I'm free."_

He _was_ free. All those times he had he had thought he would die. All those times he had contemplated, had wished for…

How close?

"George Weasley?"

George opened his eyes again, staring at a light blue blob over Fred's shoulder through tear-filled eyes.

"Y-yeah?"

"I am Healer Parsons. I was the attending Healer when you were brought in and…"

His words began to melt together, his figure to become fuzzy. George couldn't keep his eyes open. Exhaustion forced them fluttering closed. The voice was farther away, and then George heard it no more.

* * *

When George once again became aware he was no longer dreaming, he felt calmer. The pains in his body were numb and he had vague memories of talking to Fred and being in a hospital. Was that right? Had Draco succeeded in his escape?

He opened his eyes tentatively, in case the room was again filled with light, but found it dim, and much more comfortable on his eyes. He saw several shapes in the room, and after a moment, was able to recognize who they were. Fred sat directly next to the bed, his body facing George, but his head turned toward the foot of the bed, listening to Ron, who was leaning against the wall, his mouth moving, though George couldn't quite make out what he was saying. Ginny and Bill were in the room as well, sitting in folding chairs, and seemingly talking to one another.

He closed his eyes wearily, and when he again opened them, found that Ginny was watching him from where she sat. Her eyes widened, and a grin spread across her lips.

"George!" The heads of his brothers whipped around, Fred half rose out of his seat so he was practically hovering over the bed, and a black haired figure popped up from the floor directly to George's right where, he realized, Harry had been sitting on the floor, probably against the wall.

Before Fred could say anything, Ginny had barreled forward, practically throwing herself on George, reminding him exactly what kind of pain he should have been feeling. It was Ron who pulled the youngest Weasley off of him, seeing the look of pain stamped on his brother's face.

"Careful, Gin."

"Oh, George, I'm so sorry! I've just been so worried!"

"George, do you know where you are?" Fred sounded worried as he asked the question, and George wondered why as he answered.

"H-h-hosp-pital."

"Yeah. You're in St. Mungo's." He was smiling, but as George looked around the room, he realized that not everyone else was. Harry, Bill, and Ron looked sad, but Ginny- Ginny looked as though she was going to cry. He focused back on Fred.

"H-h-how l-long?" he asked, frowning at the weakness in his own voice and lack of energy in his limbs as he tried again to move his arms, but found them struggling weakly against his bonds.

"You've been in and out for a couple of days now," Fred answered, his fingers working at the buckles of the leather straps holding his brother down. "Last night was the closest you've been to coherent."

George pulled his arms to his chest, now that Fred had them freed, and rubbed his hands over them. He winced as his fingers touched a sore spot on his right shoulder.

"Are you okay? Do you need the healer? Ginny, go-."

"F-fine," George told him, weakly grabbing at the sleeve of his robes. "S-s-sit. Y-you're m-making me d-dizzy."

Fred popped back down into his chair and watched George carefully as he closed his eyes wearily, the humor disappearing from his face for a few moments while his siblings stood motionless, watching him, wondering what was wrong.

"You all right there, George?" Bill asked at last.

"Y-eah," he answered, opening his eyes again. "J-just t-tired."

The door opened and the elderly healer stepped in, nodding to the siblings and coming to stand near the head of George's bed.

"It's good to see you're awake again, George," he said. "How are you feeling?"

He frowned, not sure exactly how to answer. He wasn't completely numb, but he wasn't in as much pain as he used to be. He felt good comparative to his prison stay, but compared to his life previous?

The healer smiled, as though he completely understood George's problem.

"Shall we see, then, how you are doing?" He leaned close to George and slowly removed the bandage from his neck. George grimaced, knowing exactly which injury he was checking. He didn't know what it looked like, had never actually seen it himself, but he remembered what it had felt like, the fear in the pit of his stomach as he tried to staunch the flow of blood with his hands. He blinked, pushing the memory far away. He was safe. The gasps from his siblings sent his eyes up to the ceiling to avoid the looks in their eyes.

"I need to thoroughly examine your brother's injuries, and it could take several minutes," Healer Parson's voice finally said to the group behind him. "Would you mind waiting outside?"

Fred looked like he was going to argue, but Ginny took his arm and led him from the room. George couldn't help but breathe more easily with them gone.

"Don't worry. I see it all the time," the old man said as he leaned back.

"What?"

"Your reaction."

"I-I did-dn't-."

"Well, if I was wrong, I apologize. Something told me you didn't want your injuries on display for your family."

His eyes went to the ceiling again as Parsons again leaned forward and poked the sensitive skin on George's neck. "H-how b-bad is it?"

"Your neck? Or your injuries in general?"

"Both."

"Well, I suppose that's my answer to whether your pain reducers are still working." He smiled slightly. "There was an infection when you came I, but we were able to treat it and none of the tissue damage was permanent. There is a scar, but I find that's preferable to losing your life."

He replaced the bandage, then fetched a rolling stool that was somewhere outside the curtains. Sitting on it, the healer stared long into George's face, and the twin couldn't help but feel that this man was mentally arguing with himself. "Would you like me to bring your family back in while we talk about the rest of your injuries?"

"W-W-Why? Are th-they that b-bad?"

"The fact that we are speaking says they are not life-threatening. But sometimes having family near-."

"J-just t-tell me," George said after a moment's hesitation.

"You're sure?"

"Yeah."

"Very well then. I'll explain your injuries as I check them. Fair?" When George nodded, he continued. "Besides a problem with infection," he said nodding toward the bandage on his neck, "you came to us with several broken bones. Your clavicle, here, suffered a hairline fracture." He laid his clipboard on the foot of the bed and amused himself with prodding George's right shoulder with his fingers, asking if there was any pain.

George groaned as those fingers pressed a spot right at the top of his shoulder, shooting lightening straight up his spine and directly into his brain.

"Hm. It seems to have healed. No signs of infection. Could possibly be phantom pain- your mind telling you that you should feel pain there. We'll leave it in its sling a little longer. Let me know if it continues though." George nodded. "Your legs, I'm afraid have been a bit more problematic."

Parsons walked to the end of the bed and pulled aside the sheets near George's feet. George saw him run the feather of his quill up the pad of his left foot, but felt no tickle.

He panicked. Was he paralyzed? He kicked the toes on his right foot to check, but felt no calm in its answering movement.

"It's okay, George. I was simply checking that your painkillers were still working before I touched anything. The fractures in your legs have been most distressing. Your right leg, as you just saw, is healing, though it will take some time before it's a hundred percent. The left, I'm afraid, is not healing so smoothly. It appears to have taken the brunt of the damage, the bones themselves nearly decimated in places. Improper healing caused severe tissue and nerve damage." He pulled the blankets aside so George could see the bulky cast covering his leg. His toes were nearly all a dark purple. He was amazed that it was his own leg, thinking for a moment how fascinated his father would be at the use of a Muggle technology in St. Mungo's.

"We have to keep your leg straight while the bone reheals. Your muscles are healing as well, though slowly after such a traumatizing ordeal. The nerve damage, however, will take much longer. You will have some difficulty walking for some time."

"Why?"

"The nerves do not regenerate quickly. In fact, without magic, they would not at all. As it is, nerve therapy is still in its early stages. You will have to return frequently for the therapy, and with time, you should be able to walk without help."

"But n-not now?"

"No, you cannot. By the time you leave here, you should be able to rely on a staff or cane, and if we are successful, you will come to rely on it less and less."

"A c-cane," he murmured, sinking down into his pillow.

"Better than losing it all together," the Healer added, though it did nothing to calm him.

"I-Is th-that it?"

"Various cuts and bruises, primarily to the arms, hands, and face, malnutrition and dehydration, but, physically, yes, that's it. And the spell damage- evidence of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse. We have observed some evidence of this, even under sedation. Now that you are awake, it may become more noticeable."

"S-St-stutter-ing?"

"That's part of it, though it will probably subside after a bit. But also uncontrollable shaking. Memory loss. In more severe cases, convulsions. When you first came in, you suffered from a seizure. It may have been from the shock. It may have been a post-traumatic reaction, but while we were trying to help you, you were strapped down to keep you from reinjuring yourself. For this reason, you will be kept under observation for latent affects."

George nodded.

"Would you like to see your family now?"

"Could- could I j-just have a f-few m-minutes?"

"Of course."

Parsons busied himself with updating George's chart while, for several long moments George seemed to struggle with himself about what he'd learned. While the young man said nothing, his eyes spoke volumes of his worries. At last, his face seemed to brighten, and the healer knew he was preparing himself.

"You know, you've been through a lot in the last few months. I think they'd understand if you didn't put on the 'happy face' routine."

"Th-they've b-been th-through enough w-without having to w-worry about m-me."

"And you've been through too much to go through it alone." George frowned as the healer moved toward the door. "Trust me. When you start coming in for therapy for your legs, you will hear me say 'I told you so.'" With that said he opened the door and the party moved back into George's room.

* * *

The visitors were pretty steady for most of the day, though Assistant Healer Ensley chased them out on several occasions so George could eat or rest or take medication. Each time she chased them out, George found himself more and more thankful, as the only thing anyone wanted to talk about was how hurt he was, and that was the last thing he wanted to discuss openly. In the end, when Rebecca (for that was what he found himself calling this woman who was saving him from his friends) shooed the last gathering out of his room, George grabbed at Harry's robe sleeve, but said nothing when he turned to look at him. Instead, he waited for the room to empty.

"H-Harry, h-h-have you heard f-from D-D-Draco?"

"Not lately." Harry glanced at the door, then sat on the edge of George's bed. "It's been-." He did a quick calculation in his head. "Two and a half weeks." George's face clouded, so Harry was quick to reassure him. "He's probably taking a break. He looked like hell last time I saw him, so he's probably taking care of himself now."

"If y-you s-see him, th-thank him f-for me."

"Yeah, I'll do that." He moved his hand up to George's shoulder, careful not to hurt anything that was bandaged or bruised. "Get some rest, okay?"

"Yeah." He was already sinking into the pillow as Harry pulled the door closed behind him.

* * *

Draco choked down the potion and holding out the vial, making a disgusted face. Snape said nothing, barely acknowledged his reaction but to raise an eyebrow at the young man. Then, reaching into his pocket, Snape clutched an item and dropped it into Draco's curious hand.

The younger man swore as soon as he saw it.

"When did it change?"

"Just a few minutes ago. Where do you think you're going?"

Draco had pulled the blanket aside and had twisted his body to the side to stand up.

"To see someone."

"And how do you plan to get there when you cannot even stand on your own?"

As soon as he attempted to gain his own feet, he knew Snape was right. Damn it! He was still too weak to do anything on his own! He swore, clutching the coin in his hand, which had revealed a meeting time with the Order.

"I will go," Snape finally said, and Draco looked up sharply at those words. Snape rarely went to the headquarters. There was still a great amount of distrust toward him, and he usually found himself at the wrong end of a wand. Through the last few years, unless it was something too important to wait, information was passed to the other members through Draco or McGonagall or sometimes even Potter.

"Why?"

"Trust, Draco." His voice had gone a little more quiet, and he added. "I am assuming Potter is worried you were found out after the raid, or that he wants more information about the work you've been doing. In either case, he must be apprised of the current situation. Besides, I know that you've been impatient for information as well, so I will discover the condition of George Weasley for you."

"Thank you."


	9. Chapter 9

Harry sat at the kitchen table in the headquarters and glanced at his watch. It was nearly six in the morning, the time he had asked Draco to meet him. George had been worried about the spy, and now Harry was too. The last time he had seen him, Draco hadn't looked well at all, and now, with no contact since the raid, well, he wanted to make sure he was alright.

The front door opened, and Harry looked up, tracking the sound of footsteps as they made their way down the hallway and to the kitchen door. But when the door opened, it wasn't Draco. Harry's stomach plummeted.

"Snape? Has something happened to Draco?" he asked, rising from his seat. The look he was given was one of disdain, but the auror ignored it.

"Sit down, Potter. Draco is fine." He swept across the room and stood before the table across from the boy. "He is sleeping."

"Sleeping?" Sleeping? Draco missed a meeting so he could sleep in? That didn't sound like him. "What happened?"

"He has been overworked of late and has fallen ill. And after the Dark Lord's _displeasure _over the fall of Domus Devereor-." Snape faltered in his words, something Harry had only seen on rare occasions. "He was found in his apartment four days ago, unconscious."

"Is he okay?"

"I just told you, he is fine. He is on bedrest at the moment, which is why I am here and he is not."

Despite Snape's nonchalance about the whole thing, Harry could see that the man was worried as well. His emotions were always so well-hidden, except where Draco was involved. Though he tried to hide it, whenever the younger spy's health or safety came into question, Snape became just a little rankled.

"Did you need something?" Snape asked at last, pulling Harry from his thoughts.

"Huh?"

"Always so eloquent, Potter," he said with a smirk. "Why did you summon Draco?"

"Oh. Yeah. George asked about him last night. I promised I would make sure he was okay."

"And he is." Snape flicked at a piece of lint on his cloak, and Harry knew a question was coming. He only ever feigned boredom or disregard like this when he was about to ask about someone. "And how is George Weasley? Draco was quite worried he would not survive."

"He woke up yesterday- knew what was going on around him. He'll be in the hospital for a few weeks, but he'll live."

"Draco will be pleased to hear that. What of his injuries?"

"Mostly healed or healing. The only problem they're having is with his legs. He'll have trouble walking for a while, but the healers think they might be able to help him."

"Draco was worried about spell damage."

Harry couldn't hide his smirk as he wondered if Draco was the only one with an interest in George's recovery. Afterall, it was Snape's potions that had saved his life.

"He's stuttering pretty badly. The healers said there's some injury to his nervous system, and that's what's causing it, but with some therapy, it can be minimized. That's all we've seen since he woke up."

"No seizures? Blackouts? Shaking of the hands?"

"He had a seizure the first night, but nothing since then. Like I said, he hasn't been awake very long, and the staff is watching him very carefully." The spy nodded. "Look, Snape, I know George and the rest of the family wanted to thank Draco for what he did."

"I will pass on the message."

"And me too," Harry added. "I know he was risking his life with this one." Snape nodded again. "And tell him to get better."

"Are you finished?"

"Yeah. I guess I am."

* * *

_Sleep brought no comfort. Sleep brought dreams of places he would never see again and comforts he would never feel. Sleep brought memories from which he could not wake up. Sleep, the arbiter of reality and fantasy, merely supplied the mind with images which were as torturous as waking._

_Unconsciousness, the lack of all but most essential function, was an oasis in his brain, a mirage of safety, which fought off memory, seconded only to death itself to put an end to pain. But this lack of memory does nothing to remind why life is important. It is the contradiction between living and life, between breathing and surviving._

_How does one define survival? Is it in continuing to function? Is it in fighting not to die? Is it in moving past the nightmares and the memories?_

_Do you survive in forgetting what had been your whole world for- how long?_

_Do you ignore the tremors? The scars? The sound of your own voice?_

_Is this survival?_

_Is this all that would be left? Trying to forget? _

_Is this life?

* * *

_

By eight o'clock in the morning, Fred was back at the hospital. He knew his brother had not been sleeping well since he had awakened three days ago, as was evidenced by the dark circles around his eyes, but yesterday, Healer Parsons had finally threatened to force the dreamless sleep potion down George's throat. He, predictably, relented and took the potion, Fred had no doubt his brother would still be asleep when he entered.

He was surprised to find George staring up at the ceiling with a faraway look on his face. Fred took his seat next to his twin's bed and watched him carefully, curious both what he was thinking and when he would notice he was no longer alone in the room. George remained still for several minutes, his only movement was a shifting of his eyes back and forth, as though some scene in his memory was playing itself out before his eyes. It was when his breathing increased and his face screwed up as though he might panic that Fred reached out and touched his shoulder.

Startled by the unexpected contact, George's eyes widened and slowly shifted to his brother, staring at him for a moment before recognition set in.

"F-F-F-." His eyes closed in frustration.

"You okay?"

George merely nodded his answer, keeping his eyes closed.

"You sure? You were pretty intense there for a while."

He didn't answer, just sat in silence, eyes closed, breathing deeply. Finally, he again looked at him.

"W-what d-d-day i-s it?"

"Thursday."

George shook his head.

"D-d-date."

"June 23rd."

His face remained strangely blank as he absorbed the information. Fred knew exactly what he was thinking. This was the first time Fred had asked any questions about how long he had been captive, and at this moment, he was realizing just how long ten months was.

"George?"

"I-I'm f-fine."

Fred's smile was a thin one. He knew George wasn't fine, but he wasn't going to talk about it. He had grown obstinate in his refusal to talk about the things that were bothering him, instead falling silent for long periods, despite everyone around him. Sighing mentally, Fred wondered where his brother had gone.

* * *

For the next week, the attention of the Order slowly returned to Voldemort and the Death Eaters. The Dark Lord had remained strangely quiet since the attack in Domus Devereor, which only worried Harry all the more. The media had touted the attack as a windfall for the Ministry, and Scrimgeour was praised for his military prowess.

No one who was actually involved in the planning said otherwise.

News too of the seven rescued prisoners spread, despite a Ministry request that they and their families be left alone. Their names were listed in the article with some background on their lives and disappearance. A few, including George, even ran with pictures of them in the hospital, obviously taken from outside the window of the hospital. The shades remained drawn after that.

Fred wasn't seen at the headquarters in that time. All of his time was spent at the hospital with his brother or, on the rare occasion that he had been kicked out, at the rebuilt shop helping out the small staff he had employed. It was Ron and Bill who brought the news that George was finally able to sit up or that his color had returned or that he had somehow managed to slip out of bed and make it a few steps from his bed before collapsing from the pain in his leg and being berated by an angry nurse who had come by to check on him.

And while everyone had visited him fairly regularly, they were beginning to find him growing more and more silent, despite their best efforts to keep him out of his memories. Fred was redoubling his efforts, as were his siblings, but eventually, other tasks were calling their attention.

Thus, it was nearly a week and a half after they had begun that Hermione and Bill were once again huddled over the stack of scrolls they had attempted to translate the night of the raid. They had managed to make it no farther than they had before, and as Chris entered the kitchen that evening for the meeting, a significant look from Hermione told Bill that she was still focused on getting Maggie to help.

Harry was just entering the headquarters when he heard the conversation through the kitchen door.

"I don't want her involved in this!"

"She's the only one that can help us, Chris! She speaks more dead languages than anyone I know!"

That was quite a compliment coming from Hermione, Harry thought, and he wondered who she was talking about,

"I don't want her in the Order. It's hard enough protecting her without putting her on the front lines."

"Chris, she wants to be involved! When I talked to her-."

"You already talked to her about this? Damn it, Granger! Why can't you mind your own business?"

It was here that Harry pushed the door open and found Chris and Hermione facing off and Bill standing off to the side, watching idly, as though watching a tennis match.

"What's going on, guys?" Harry asked, hoping to bring a little levity to the room.

"What's going on is that Granger here saw fit to talk to Maggie about the Order without talking to anyone else first!" Harry was amazed at how red Chris's face had gone. He'd never seen him so angry.

"Hermione, is this true?"

"No! Not exactly." She turned to Harry. "We didn't talk about the Order itself. It was more general, like what we could do in this war. And Maggie obviously wants to help."

"Help with what exactly?" Harry asked.

"With these," Bill finally spoke up, lifting a scroll into the air so Harry could see. "One of the languages on here is one neither Hermione nor I know. But Maggie Alden does."

"Chris?"

"I don't want my sister involved in this war. I promised my mother I would protect her."

"She's already involved," Hermione pointed out, "because you're involved. Why should you be allowed to help and she's not?"

"My family is none of your business."

Harry couldn't help the look of surprise that crossed his face at Chris's tone.

Bill, however, seemed to understand exactly what was going on here.

"He doesn't want her to end up like George," he said calmly, shifting his gaze to hold the auror's eyes. "Or worse yet, Charlie or my parents or any of the other people who've died."

Chris's eyes were suddenly on the floor, unable to meet those of Bill Weasley.

"Is it so wrong of me to want to protect my sister?"

"No." Bill's voice was low, as though he too was thinking of all the people he wanted to protect. "But Draco is confident that You-Know-Who's plans are in these scrolls, and if we can decode them, we may have a way to stop him, but we need Maggie's help. It may put her on the line with us, but she could save the lives of millions."

Chris Alden was defeated. Harry could see it in the way his shoulders slumped slightly and his fists fell limp.

"Fine. But I'll be the one to talk to her. I want to make sure she understands exactly what she's getting into."

"Agreed."

* * *

Ginny huffed yet again at not being able to see George's face. She wasn't used to not being able to see the twin's face, or any of her brothers, and hated it especially now as it made reading his moods even more difficult- if that was possible, considering how changed he was. Perhaps if he weren't able to hide behind that damned hair, he would actually look at his siblings when he spoke, if he spoke.

"George, let me cut your hair!" she blurted out, reaching for her purse. She wouldn't use her wand. She'd already seen his reaction at having a wand pointed anywhere in his direction when Ron had attempted to show him the effects of an experiment gone wrong by one of his students. George had nearly jumped from the bed in surprise and fright. It had taken nearly twenty minutes of profuse apologies and slow breathing to calm him again.

"M-My h-hair?" He reached up, hesitantly touching his shoulder-length locks, as though just realizing how long they were. Ginny realized she was holding her breath when she glanced at Fred and found that he too was watching George. Then, his hand fell into his lap. "O-k-kay."

Ginny smiled and dug through the bag, at last finding what she needed at the bottom. She slid off the sheath and held the scissors in triumph. This would mark the first time any of her brothers had willingly allowed her to cut their hair.

"How short do you want to go?" she asked, moving closer to the bed.

"Not t-too-." He never finished the sentence. After a few seconds, Ginny realized that George wasn't merely slow in speaking, thinking out each word to minimize his stutter. No, he was completely frozen, transfixed on the scissors she held while one hand slowly crept up to touch the bandage on his neck.

'Oh Merlin, was that how-?' The thought disappeared as Fred's hand closed over the twin blades.

"Put them away," he hissed.

Ginny's eyes darted from his angry visage to George's wide eyes, then down to the scissors. Quickly, she turned to stuff them back into her purse, but a weak voice stopped her.

"No, Gin-ny." George clenched his hand and dropped it into his lap. "P-pl-lease. My h-hair."

Either Fred had developed a twitch lately, or he was subtly telling her no, but Ginny ignored him.

"Are you sure, George? It looks kind of cool long."

"Cc-ut it."

Steadfastly ignoring Fred's gaze, she moved toward George, and though he could not see her (his eyes were clenched tightly shut), he still flinched when she touched his arm. It hurt her to see it- to have anyone she loved scared of her like this- twisted her heart.

"How short?" she asked, not realizing how hollow her voice sounded.

A shaking hand wound its way up and gripped the long hair where it fell to his shoulders. His indicator still left his hair longer than he used to wear it, but Ginny realized why. As she slowly began cutting away, she tried to style it in such a way as to hide his scars as much as possible. Nothing could hide the one's on his chin and near the corner of his mouth, but slightly long bangs pushed to the side would camouflage the rather long scar that cut through his right eyebrow and nearly to his ear.

The back was just to be trimmed. Though she would have liked to have cut it shorter, to Fred's length for old time's sake, George did not want all the length taken off. Though he had difficulty getting the words out, he placed his hand across the back of his neck, covering his spine. Ginny understood. While it was useless as a protection, the feel of something covering the back of his neck provided him with some comfort that would not come with total exposure.

Finished, Ginny stepped back and admired her work. It was a little uneven, but then she didn't have the practice her mother had, but all in all, it didn't look too bad. George, raised a hand to his hair, feeling where it had been clipped, then raised his eyes to his siblings.

"You look good," Fred said, the first to speak in several minutes. "No one will have an excuse for confusing us now." He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes, Ginny noticed. She glanced from him to George, seeing the distance that spanned farther than the room allowed.

"Do you want to see?" she asked, but her hand had already slid back into her purse for a small mirror which she held out.

George took the looking glass with a slightly trembling hand, then with a steadying breath, looked into it. He didn't move it from side to side as one would expect when someone was trying to see a new haircut. Instead, he merely gazed into it, looking at his own face.

It was the first time, Ginny realized, he had seen himself since he had been captured. He said nothing for a long time, as had become a habit of his, but Ginny and Fred glanced at each other, uncomfortable.

"George, are you okay?" she asked, hesitant to touch him for fear of startling him again.

"Yeah," he answered. "It's j-jus-t b-been a wh-while."

Hesitantly, she laid her hand on his shoulder, and though he didn't flinch away from her, she could feel him tense. Slowly, she sat down on the edge of the bed facing him and swept his bangs to the side again, then slid her fingers under his chin to raise his gaze to her.

"You _are_ okay," she told him. "You're safe."

He looked so unsure meeting her gaze. The uncertainty was just _wrong_ on either of the twins, but on George, who was always the one smiling and reassuring others (granted, with a healthy amount of teasing), it was disheartening.

"George?"

He didn't answer. Ginny wrapped her arms around him and held him close, rocking him gently when he dropped his forehead to her shoulder. He wasn't crying. She knew that instinctively, but there was so much pent up inside of him, she simply held him while it all swept over him.

What else _could_ she do?


	10. Chapter 10

The mirror, fogged by the heat of the shower, revealed a shadowy outline which only sharpened slightly when a reddened hand reached up and wiped away the condensation. The hand then dropped to the side of the sink, gripping it tightly as a thin face with pointed features peered into the glass, at first apathetic, then with disgust.

Draco Malfoy had not been punished as he had expected when he had returned to the fold after his illness. In fact, the Dark Lord had asked him if he was feeling better, a sentiment so out of place, it had sent a chill down the Death Eater's spine as his mind raced to find meaning in those words.

And then it was over.

He had listened all night to the reports of activities, hiding his own thoughts as he smiled and simpered and laughed as any good Death Eater would, but he was sickened by it, by himself.

What was in this reflection? Was it a traitor to his blood? A traitor to mankind?

Or was it simply a man who wanted to return to bed and let someone else fight? Someone who understood more clearly his own beliefs and stances, someone who could see in more colors than black and white?

Who the hell was he kidding?

Did he think he was some kind of hero?

Heroes didn't do the things he had done. They didn't sneer when people begged for their lives. They didn't cheer when the _unworthy_ finally screamed after refusing to open their mouths to torture. They didn't wash the blood off their hands as merely another day's work.

He glanced down to his hands still gripping the porcelain. They were still red from the scrubbing. It was getting harder and harder to get rid of the blood.

Is this what it meant to be _Good_? Raw hands and a disgusted reflection?

Draco scoffed, then turned off the light, leaving the reflection to be pondered another day. There was too much to be done today.

* * *

Chris sat at the table in his own apartment, a bottle of Blond Witch Ale spinning slightly under his touch. It was a Muggle brew, slightly fruity, but Maggie liked it and they both found the name amusing.

He watched his sister while she talked, telling about the latest piece she had uncovered in storage with the animation of Ron talking about Quidditch. Only Maggie, even with her glasses on the table in front of her and a bottle of ale in her hands, could be so excited by a piece of trash that had been thrown into storage years ago.

He dropped his eyes down to his bottle and quietly considered not broaching the subject. Would the others realize it if he never mentioned the Order to her? Could they understand his reasoning? Especially the Weasleys, who had already sacrificed more than any family should?

"Are you okay, Chris?"

The Auror, the protector, the older brother glanced up, startled to realize that Maggie was no longer speaking, but staring at him with concerned pale eyes.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He took a breath, then leaned forward on the table, gripping the bottle in both hands. "Look, Mags, there's something I wanted to talk to you about."

"What did you do?"

"Huh?"

She sighed.

"Whenever you want to talk to me about something, it usually means you're going to get in trouble and want my help in covering it up from Mum. That we're meeting here means it's something that you don't want her to know about, plus, you bought my favorite drink, so you're going to ask me for a favor or something."

"Nothing gets by you, does it?" he asked, his own pale eyes meeting hers. When she didn't answer, he continued. "It's not really a favor or anything. I just wanted to talk to you about something, and no, I don't want Mum to know."

"What?" She waited patiently while he considered where to begin. In the end, he chose the tactic that had been used on him.

"I talked to Granger the other day-."

"Hermione?"

"Yeah, Hermione. So, she said that you two had been talking about the war, and I was just wondering what you thought."

"About what?"

"The war."

"Is there a wrong answer? We're fighting against a narrow-minded fascist whose very ideals embrace Neo-Nazism in a way that makes even Hitler seem tame by comparison. The general population is terrified, and the Ministry, while having masterminded a quite daring and successful raid on his prison, has done very little to actually combat the perpetrator." She looked away from him, but Chris could see that she wasn't finished. "I'm tired of seeing the lists, Chris. I'm tired of checking the obituary page first thing every day, hoping I don't see a familiar name. And I'm tired of the fear that every time I come home, there could be someone waiting in Mother's house for me or for her or for you."

Her silence fell softly, her words still ringing in his mind. He hadn't realized.

"I'm sorry."

"About what?" she asked. "I didn't say anything you should have to apologize for. You're not the one doing this."

"No, I'm sorry that I didn't know you felt this strongly. I had just assumed that you were protected from all this in that little room of yours in the basement of the Ministry."

"I do come out sometimes," she answered seriously. "And I do pay attention to what's going on around me."

"You know, you've really grown up, Mag Pie," he said with a hint of a smile.

"You say that like you're _so_ much older than me. And don't call me Mag Pie."

"A year still makes me older."

"Eleven and a half months, and barely."

"Still older."

"And less mature."

His smile held for a moment, then faded. This conversation was not over yet.

"If you could help us fight- if you could help us win, even if it meant risking your own life, would you do it?"

She looked at him, noting the sudden change in his tone from the banter of just moments ago, and nodded.

* * *

George lay in his bed in the dark hospital room, his head turned to the side to stare at the birch cane leaning against the nightstand. The nurse had brought it in with a wide smile, believing perhaps that it held the key to new mobility for George, but the hooked piece of wood only served as a reminder of what he could no longer do on his own.

And right now, he couldn't even walk with the cane. He'd had more treatments and therapy than he could stand for the last three weeks, but he was still only slightly better than when he had first come out of the prison. True, his stuttering wasn't as bad, and there were times when he could get out a full sentence without cringing at his own syntax, but walking was still not possible. The bones were long mended, but muscles in his leg were still too weak and the nerves, still too damaged.

Another week with his walker (possibly the only thing he hated more than that damned cane) and they wanted him to start practicing with the cane. He couldn't go very far or very fast, but at least it was progress.

He sighed.

There didn't seem to be much left of him. He saw it in his siblings' faces when they visited- saw it more in Fred's than anyone else's- and it hurt him. But what the hell was he supposed to do?

Angry, he clenched his fist and pounded it against the mattress.

He wanted out of this prison. True, it was cleaner and brighter than his last one, but it was a prison nonetheless. He was tired of being cooped up, of being still or being told what to eat and when to sleep. He was tired of having guards outside his door who tried not to look at him with pity when he passed.

He wanted his room, not this hospital bed.

He wanted his wand, not the replacement Fred had promised they would get, but _his_ wand. The wand he had had since he was a child. The wand that was destroyed in the fire.

He wanted his freedom and his privacy. He wanted people to stop asking him if he was okay and what they could do to help, because there was nothing they could do. They couldn't "fix" him. They couldn't fix his body, so how the hell were they going to fix his mind?

The door creaked open, spilling light across the far corner of the room, but leaving George in shadow.

"George? You awake?" Harry's voice whispered loudly into the room.

"Yeah," he answered, his voice only barely covering the bitterness of his thoughts. "What are you doing here so late?"

Harry and a second, taller figure moved into the room. George covered his eyes while the lights were turned on. When they adjusted, he looked up at Harry and Chris.

"Some people just aren't happy until they can see with their own eyes that you're alive," Harry answered good-naturedly. Chris, on the other hand, was frowning at the door, then removed his wand from his robes and flicked it in that direction. George tensed, but proudly did not flinch at the sight.

It was progress.

Then, Chris turned to him and seemed to examine him with his pale blue eyes.

"So Potter wasn't lying. You do look much better."

This didn't sound like Chris. It was his voice, but this wasn't how he spoke.

"I look the s-same as I did yesterday when you w-were here," he commented.

Chris smirked, but it wasn't his smirk. It was too- Malfoyish.

"Draco?"

The smirk deepened.

"There seems to be a lot of concern about you around the headquarters."

Great. Now he had a Death Eater checking on his health.

"I'm fine."

"And you can say a whole sentence without falling apart."

The look Harry shot him was worthy of any glare from any of the more reproving professors George had had, but both he and Draco ignored it. It felt good to be around someone who wasn't treating him like glass.

"D-Don't you have someone to t-torture?"

"It's my night off, so I thought I'd visit." He stood with a haughtiness that Chris had never had, and George almost smiled at how incongruent it seemed. He couldn't help wondering if the Auror knew that a Death Eater was wearing his face. "Your accommodations are improved."

"Slightly better prison."

The look he received was apprising.

"And how _is_ your slightly better prison?"

"Better food."

A knock at he door drew Harry away, and with a short apology, out of the room. Draco turned back toward George.

"Without the jokes, George. How are you?"

"I'm healing."

"Your family?"

"What ab-bout them?" But George already knew what he meant. He just didn't want to deal with this question- didn't want to have to think about it.

"I think you know. I've heard them talk. They don't know how to deal with you because you won't talk to them."

"They d-don't have to _d-deal_ with me," George replied bitterly.

"Alright. They don't know how to _help_ you, because you won't talk to them."

"I d-don't w-want to t-talk about it."

Draco raised an eyebrow at the returned stutter. It seemed to have become more pronounced as he became agitated.

"But you need to talk to them."

"N-no I d-don't!" He squeezed his eyes shut, attempting to calm himself down. Draco watched as he breathed deeply, then swallowed before opening his eyes again. "I don't w-want to talk about what I w-went through," he said with no small amount of deliberation. "Th-they don't need to know that. I-I can't-."

"You can't talk about what you went through. That's fine. That's something I understand. But you cannot ignore them completely. You've returned from the dead for them, so forgive them if they act like idiots trying to help you."

George didn't answer him for a long time. Instead, he simply stared up at the ceiling, ignoring the other presence in the room. Draco seemed content with this, simply waiting patiently until either he spoke again or Potter returned to the room.

"S-since when did you become my counselor?"

"Weasley, I brought you back from the dead. I'm a step from sainthood right now." At George's slightly humored gaze, he smiled. "Besides, your brothers are more amusing when they're not whispering and acting all dejected. Insulting them is like kicking a wounded puppy."

The door opened and Harry slipped back in. He had only been out of the room for a few minutes, but those few minutes seemed to have aged him. He looked older, tired. Something had happened.

"What's wrong, Potter?"

"Nothing," he answered distractedly. "Just Auror stuff. You ready to go?"

"I think I'm finished here." He inclined Chris's head just slightly in a clipped nod. "George, good to see you're doing better."

"Yeah, thanks. Hey, I - heard you were sick."

Chris's- Draco's eyebrows rose just a touch.

"Exhaustion," he answered mildly. "It's wearing trying to keep you alive."

"Thank you." George reached out his hand and Draco stared at it a moment before grasping it in his own.

"You're welcome. Just don't get caught again." Now George did smile. "I'll let you sleep then," Draco said, glancing over at Harry. Harry nodded and laid his hand on George's shoulder.

"Let me know if you need anything, okay?"

"Can you b-break me out?"

Harry smiled.

"I'll see what I can do."

The two men moved to the door, but before opening it, Harry turned to Draco.

"Try not to sneer so much. Chris actually _likes_ to be around people."

Draco shrugged, then followed Harry out the door, not changing the look on his face at all.

Alone again, George let his eyes fall again to the cane. With a disgusted sigh, he reached out and took up the small vial of Dreamless Sleep potion and drank it back. Then, he closed his eyes and let it do its work.

* * *

"Who else is in this Order?"

"I can't tell you that. Not until you've actually joined and all precautions have been taken."

"Precautions?"

"It's for safety. You-Know-Who would love a list of our roster."

"And how long have you been in it?"

"Two years."

"Two years?" The look of betrayal crossed her face. "Two years?"

"Mags, it's not like I was keeping a secret from you. Okay, it was a secret, but it wasn't mine. If we all told our families what we were doing, it wouldn't take long before the information got into the wrong hands."

"Chris, it's not about keeping it a secret. That I understand, but you waited two years before coming to me? What- Why wouldn't you let me help earlier? I could have been helping all this time!"

"Because I didn't want you a part of it. I still don't."

"Then why are you telling me about it now?"

"Because you can help us. I hate it, but we need you."

"But you don't want me to help."

Chris ran a hand through his raven hair.

"I do, but I also don't want you to get hurt. It's dangerous, Maggie. This isn't like in a movie where the good guys win and everyone survives with barely a scratch. We've already lost a lot of members." He sighed at her determined look. "I want you to think about your decision very carefully. Don't talk to anyone about it; I'm the only one you know anything about, so it's a danger to me. But I want you to decide for yourself- what _you_ want to do. I'll give you a week."

"What if I know right now?"

"Please, just think about it."

"I can save you the time." She crossed her arms on the table and gave him that look she always did when she knew something he didn't and that it would seriously piss him off.

"Would it involve me having to Obliviate you?"

"No."

"Then wait the week. At least give me that time to get used to this."

"Fine. One week."

* * *

"So how is he?"

"Who?" Draco asked as they walked along the street.

"George."

"You see him more than I do, Potter. I should be asking you."

"True, but you're the only one he's actually spoken to. Moore said he heard George shout at you."

"He did."

"And?"

"I called him an idiot, though not quite in those terms, then declared my candidacy for sainthood," Draco answered, keeping his face composed. "We hugged. We cried. And now we're better friends than ever."

Potter stared at him for a long moment, as though Draco had another head growing out of his bum. Then, he shook his head and smiled.

"Sometimes, I really hate talking to you."

"There was a time, Potter, when you _always _hated talking to me."

"The good old days."

"Yes, the good old days."


	11. Chapter 11

Maggie walked beside her brother across the empty lot saying nothing. They rarely needed words to know each others moods, and from Chris's expression, she could tell that he was on the alert, though for what she could not know. When he stopped, she did as well, though she glanced around the Muggle neighborhood, taking in the decrepit houses leaning on one another for support.

"Chris, are you sure-?"

"Shh," he hissed softly, and she swallowed her question as he reached into his pocket and withdrew a slip of paper. "Read this, but don't say anything."

Frowning, she took the slip from his hand. One sentence was written in a tiny scrawl across the middle:

_'The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix can be found at number 12, Grimmauld Place.' _

She glanced up, spying numbers 11 and 13, but no twelve. She was still searching the street when her brother's voice reached out softly.

"Concentrate on what you just read."

When she looked up at him, she found he was watching her, as though silently asking her once again if this was what she really wanted. She wrapped the slip of paper around her finger and concentrated on the words, letting them blaze in her mind. Then she looked up to find that number 12 was pressing up against the walls of the surrounding houses, making its presence known. Chris was already walking toward the front door.

She jogged to catch up with him, and made it through the door just behind him, though she banged her knee rather hard on the ugliest umbrella stand she had ever seen. She reached out to steady it before it could fall over before realizing it was a foot and drew quickly away.

"Maggie," Chris called softly, waving her through a door to the right. She followed him and found herself blinking in a brightly lit kitchen where three people were gathered around a scrubbed table. "Maggie, you remember Harry."

"Hi Maggie," Harry Potter said and stuck out a hand, which Maggie shook, realizing that though they had been at school at the same time and he and Chris worked together, this was first time she'd actually met the boy.

"Mr. Potter," she returned, earning an embarrassed smile.

"You can call me Harry."

"Okay, Harry."

"And Remus Lupin," Chris continued, motioning around the table.

"Professor?" She winced at the surprise in her own voice at finding not just her former professor, but a werewolf in the Order.

"Formerly, Miss Alden. I'm just Remus now." He smiled, though perhaps a little sadly. Pity, that. She had enjoyed his classes during the one year he had taught her at Hogwarts. "Nice to see you again."

"And of course, you know Hermione."

Hermione waved, then looked back at the table. Three? Counting her and Chris, that made five. Were there only five people in the Order of the Phoenix?

"There are more," Chris said, as though reading her thoughts. "We don't often meet all at the same time. Too dangerous. It'll probably be a while before you meet everyone." He motioned toward a chair.

"Who else-?" she began to ask as she sat.

"Ron and his brothers," Hermione answered. "And Remus's wife, Tonks; Kingsley Shacklebolt, Head of the DME; Headmistress McGonagall…" She trailed off, seeing Maggie's surprised face. "We're not a ragtag team, Maggie. Everyone in the Order is completely serious about what we're doing, and everyone has something to bring to the table."

"What about me?"

Hermione could barely contain her smile.

"I'm glad you asked."

* * *

The last weeks were tedious for George. He had gotten used to using a cane when he walked, though the experience was still quite painful and slow for him. Not that he told anyone that. If others knew how difficult it was, they may not let him out, and that was one thing George wanted more than anything: out of the hospital. He had been locked up for far too long without breathing in fresh air, and standing next to an open window was simply not enough. He wanted out.

At the moment, however, he wanted his brothers to stop talking about him as though he wasn't in the room.

"He can stay with Fleur and me," Bill suggested. "We have plenty of room and we're on the coast. The air'll be good for him."

"Fleur has her hands full enough with Victoire," Fred replied. "I don't understand why he can't just come to the shop with me."

"Because that's where he was attacked. You heard Healer Parsons. Going back there right away might disrupt his healing process."

"It's not the same place!"

"But it's similar enough," Bill said evenly.

"And he has enough issues with his memories without adding that stress to it."

Fred scowled at his brothers.

"Well then, what do you want to do, Ron? Send him back to Hogwarts with you?"

"I don't think McGonagall would say no to that. And it's the safest place in England."

"He'd be surrounded by people he doesn't know! You've _seen_ him when he's around strangers!"

"_I_ am not a stranger! I'm his brother, just like you!"

George closed his eyes to the sound of his brothers arguing. It was getting to be too much. Their words echoed in his ears, raised and treating him as an object.

"Please, stop," he told them, but his words were lost in theirs. His head was pounding, and he dropped it into his hand, unaware that the motion drew the attention of the last person in the room, who had remained silent to this point.

"Would you two just settle down?"

"Stay out of this, Bill! I'm tired of Mr. High and Mighty here acting like he knows everything just because he works at Hogwarts!"

"I never said-."

But the rest of Ron's words were lost to George. His brothers, the room, even the hand that had appeared on his shoulder, were all lost.

_"Tears, Mr. Weasley? Has the high and mighty finally broken? Are you ready to beg me for death yet?" The masked face was blurred through his tears and choking breath as he looked up from the cold floor._

_"N-n-no." _

_"Good." The voice seemed to almost smile. How he hated that voice! The same that had brought him to this place and visited him too often, invoking unimaginable pain with each. "I had hoped not. I enjoy our visits so." The wand pointed down at him. "Crucio."_

* * *

Harry sighed from his position against the wall, his arms folded across his chest, as he listened to the brothers argue. As close as the family had always been, it seemed that with George's death, this was becoming more and more common. He had hoped that it would stop altogether now that the twin had been found alive and was now nearly returned to a state of health, but it appeared he was wrong in this.

And he had learned long ago better than to step in. His position here was an official one, to act as escort for George as he was released from the hospital. He, like all the former prisoners, was likely to be a target by Death Eaters who might try to garner favor again by repossessing those who had been freed. And though he had volunteered for this one in particular, he began to wonder if that might not have been a good idea.

Movement on the bed from the corner of his eye drew his attention as George dropped his head into his hand. Apparently, he was getting tired of this too. Not that Harry could blame him. He wasn't all too happy with the way this was going either. He waited a moment to see if any of the others noticed before drawing their attention to it, but the argument continued, ignoring the person on whom it should have focused.

"I never said I know everything!" Ron's voice rang out, but Harry was ignoring them completely now, moving unnoticed toward the bed where George appeared to be breathing faster than normal and highly agitated. He dropped a comforting hand on his shoulder, but the redhead didn't seem to notice.

His jaw was clenched as though in pain, one hand clenched at this hair while the other arm was wrapped around his abdomen. George's mouth twisted and trembled, as he attempted stop himself from crying.

Then the rocking began.

"Stop. Please stop." His pleading was soft, and Harry wasn't sure if he was talking to his brothers or to whatever memories were passing through his mind, as he was pretty sure was currently happening.

"George?"

The one word seemed enough to snap the brothers out of their argument and draw their attention back to what was actually important.

"What happened?" Fred asked, the argument forgotten as his voice became instantly soft. He slid onto the bed so he was facing his twin, but seemed unsure how to help him.

"Something must have triggered a memory," Harry pointed out. He didn't want to say that it was probably their argument, but from the looks on their faces, he was sure they figured that one out on their own.

"George?" Fred called gently, reaching out to his wrist. "What's wrong?"

"Should I go get the Healer?" Ron asked.

"Just hang on a minute," Bill answered, dropping to a squat so he was looking up into George's face. "George, do you know where you are?"

He shook his head. Tears gathered under his eyelashes.

"You're at St. Mungo's, mate. Harry brought you here, remember?" Fred rubbed his thumb soothingly over his brother's wrist. "George?"

George's opened his eyes and raised his other hand to his face, though whether he pulled it from Fred's grip or Fred merely took his hand away, Harry was unsure.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine." His voice was flat, and nobody in the room believed him. The room was silent as George got his breathing back under control. His hands scrubbed over his face, surreptitiously wiping at his eyes.

"Maybe you should stay here a few more days," Bill offered. "Until we get everything figured out."

"I'm _fine,_" he repeated. "I can't stay here any longer. I feel like I'm going crazy."

His choice of words didn't really comfort anyone.

"Just- just take me back to our flat. I'll be fine there."

Fred shook his head.

"I don't think so, George. Ron's right. You're not ready for that." He pointedly ignored the shocked look on his baby brother's face. "I think Bill might be right about you staying here."

"No." He looked around at his brothers, including Harry in his sweep, as though hoping he might be an ally. "Physically, I'm fine. Okay, maybe not fine, but I'm better. Good enough that I don't have to stay here. And I don't have an brain damage, so there's no point in keeping me here just because I have some bad memories." His face turned pleading as he focused in on Fred.

"What about Grimmauld Place?" Harry offered, including all the brothers in his question, but speaking to George directly. "It's in London, so you can start going back to the shop when you're ready. There's always someone else there if you need anything. And it's well-protected."

"Harry-," Fred started warningly, but George's voice cut across him.

"Yeah. That'd be great, Harry. Thanks."

"You sure, George?" Bill asked.

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Then, I guess I'll go get you checked out." He didn't sound to reassured at the prospect, nor look it as he headed into the hallway. Both Fred and George were silent, though George appeared to be lost in his thoughts while Fred was watching him carefully, as though trying to figure out what he was thinking. It was an odd position to see the two of them in, and even the thought of it made Harry hurt inside just a little.

What had the world come to that the Weasley twins couldn't read each other so easily anymore?

Feeling eyes on him, Harry looked over at Ron, who motioned him into the hallway. With a sigh, Harry followed him out, then away from the door so they would not be overheard. Comfortable with the distance, Ron turned toward him.

"Look, Harry, I don't think Fred wanted this."

"Wanted what?"

"George back in the Order so soon."

"Or ever?"

Ron looked away.

"Yeah, maybe that too."

"I didn't offer Grimmauld Place to get George back in the Order."

"I know."

"I did it because it's a safe place where there will always be someone to look out for him."

"I know that."

"And quite frankly, I think George should have some say in what happens to him."

"Harry, I know. You're preaching to the choir here. We just want to help him."

Harry raised his eyebrows at the obviously Muggle term, but said nothing of it. Most likely, it was something he had heard Hermione say.

"I know you do," Harry replied evenly, trying to hide his annoyance. "I don't doubt that, but what you guys were doing in there-."

"What?"

"You were completely ignoring his presence, like he's too incompetent to make his own decisions, or something!"

"Harry-."

"No, Ron. For almost a year, George has had no say in what happened to him. He was denied any human dignity we take for granted, and now, when he has a chance to live his life again, you guys are treating him like a child." In frustration, Harry clenched his hands into fists, tempted to hit the wall in anger at his best friend, but instead, he breathed out and spoke slowly. "Something about what you guys were doing and how you were acting reminded him of being back in that prison. Don't tell me that triggering that kind of reaction was part of helping him."

"You're overreacting! We're nothing like those bastards who tortured him!"

"But something in his mind connected you with them. You may think you're doing the right thing, but you're ignoring how he's viewing it."

"How he's viewing it? Just about everything scares him. I haven't been with him more than ten minutes since he woke up without him freaking out in some way. When I talk to him, I never know if he's going to completely ignore me or try and get away because he thinks I'm trying to hurt him. Don't tell me that we're no better than Death Eaters to him. Hell, it could have been a spider on the wall that reminded him of that place!"

"Ron!" Ron turned his reddened face to look over his shoulder where Fred was striding angrily toward them. "Stop talking right now!" Fred was livid as he stopped between the two men. "We can hear you loud and clear in that room!"

"Maybe he should!"

Fred swung around so he was facing his younger brother, and though he was shorter by several inches, the force of his glare towered over him.

"Do not speak," he growled in a voice Harry had never heard from him before. "Do not say another word, or I swear Ron, I will lay you out on this floor right now." His jaw clenched and unclenched. "We agreed, Ron, that we would do everything we could to help him. We also agreed that we would be nothing but supporting, no matter what. If you can't do that- if this is the attitude you're going to be taking back into that room with you, then stay out."

Ron looked away, unable to look his brother in the face. All his anger dissipated into the brick at which he stared now.

"I'm sorry. I'm just- I'm frustrated. I'm tired of all of this- this _stuff _happening to our family."

"I meant what I said." Fred turned and started back toward the room.

"Fred! I'm sorry!"

"I'm not the one you need to apologize to." He opened the door and disappeared.

"Damn it."

"Ron?"

"Don't start, Harry. I don't want to hear it." He brushed past him, heading down the hallway toward the lobby.

"Where are you going?"

Ron didn't stop, but spoke over his shoulder.

"Tell George I'll talk to him later."

Harry sighed a headed back to the room.

The Weasleys were falling apart.

* * *

Returning to the room, Harry found Fred sitting in a chair, still angry, though silent. He glanced up at Harry as he entered, saying nothing, though when his eyes confirmed that Ron was not with him, his frown deepened. Harry just shrugged in reply.

George was behind the screen, presumably dressing in the clothes Fred had brought for him. Harry could hear the rustle of cloth as he changed. After a few minutes, the sound of a thin piece of wood, George's cane, hit the floor. Fred shot out of his chair, but George's calm voice stopped him.

"I'm fine, Fred."

A moment later, he stepped past the screen, leaning heavily on his cane, and seemingly unsurprised to see his brother standing nearly on top of him with his hand on his wand.

"What happened?"

"I j-just dropped my cane." He did not move as Fred hovered over him, and Harry took the time to examine his friend.

George was still pale, and though his hair covered many of them, the scars on his face stood out in a pink contrast. Having lost nearly all the muscle mass of the twins' stocky figures, he swam in Fred's clothes, looking like a little brother in hand-me-downs, rather than a twin to the man next to him. So much so, that when he raised his right hand to wipe at the light perspiration on his face, the sleeve slid smoothly back to his elbow, revealing the small scars encircling his wrist.

A keepsake of the manacles which had restrained him.

George noticed the scars as well and quickly dropped his hand, maneuvering his thumb inside the bulky sleeve until his hand was completely hidden from sight. His eyes met Harry's, sensing he was being watched, and dropped quickly to the floor.

"Where's R-Ron?"

"He had some stuff to take care of," Harry answered smoothly. "He said he'd stop by later."

George nodded, not noticing the looks Fred was shooting both of them. Instead, he was fidgeting, tightening his hand on his cane, twisting his fingers inside his sleeve, trying to look anywhere in the room he could without actually catching anyone's eye. He seemed distinctly discomfited by even the smallest attention he was being paid by just these two, and Harry couldn't help but wonder how he would react when there were more around him.

He found himself feeling sorry for George, not just for what he had been through, but also for what was ahead. Most people would not realize how changed he was until they called out to him and saw him jump, or paid him the attention he was used to receiving in his former life, not seeing how uncomfortable it made him now. How was he going to deal with all this?

Headquarters might not be too bad for him, as it was a well-protected place and might provide him with some feeling of security, but what about the shop, the street, anywhere there might be strangers or open spaces? George was going to have a tough time ahead of him.

The door opened and George spun around clumsily to face Bill, who stared pale-faced at a highly agitated twin. Apparently, for a moment, he too had forgotten the slow movements necessary when dealing with him.

"George?"

"I-I'm- I'm fine." His voice didn't exactly reflect his words, but then he flashed a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "C-Can I l-leave?"

The other three men frowned at the stuttering, which had become more prominent today.

"When you're ready," Bill answered slowly.

"Now."


	12. Chapter 12

Harry steadied George as he stumbled slightly from the side-along apparation, but the contact was quickly shrugged off.

"You okay?" Harry whispered to the Disillusioned twin. The answer was more strained than Harry wanted to hear.

"F-Fine." His voice was shaky, and Harry had no doubt that once they got inside and removed the charm, George would not look as fine as he regularly claimed to be.

Wand still clutched in hand, Harry looked around at the neighborhood. It was quiet, as it normally was during the day. Most people were at work or school, so the chances of being noticed were slim. The Disillusionment Charm was merely a precaution.

Two more pops told him Fred and Bill had arrived.

"Let's go." They moved slowly toward number thirteen, Harry keeping an eye on the street, while Fred or Bill had moved up beside George. He heard George mumble, "I d-don't n-need any h-h-help," and assumed it had been Fred who had attempted to assist him. There was no doubt this would become a regular exchange.

By the time they made it through the door, George's breathing was shallow, though whether it was from the walk or the situation, Harry was unsure. From the more pronounced stutter, Harry assumed it was the stress of being out in the open again.

Sometimes, Harry hated being right.

With the door firmly shut, they removed the charm and found George much paler, appearing clammy in the dim light of the foyer. And though his eyes were closed in his attempt to regulate his breaths, the shaking of his hands told the story of his agitation.

The three men waited silently as George sucked in a deep breath, holding it in his chest for several seconds before releasing it slowly. Then, he opened his eyes, though he still avoided theirs.

"I think I'll lie down for a bit. Which room-?"

"You can take the first room at the landing," Harry replied. It was the lowest bedroom in the house and Harry assumed the stairs would not be easy for George to tackle, but did not voice this. George probably felt weak enough as it was without-.

Fred moved to take his arm and steady him up the stairs, but George smoothly pushed his hand away.

"I'm fine, Fred." He brushed clumsily past his brother and started slowly up the stairs, the click of his cane and the creaking of his tread on the wooden steps marking his progress.

"Do you want a Dreamless-?"

"I said, I'm _fine_. I just want to lie down."

_Click. _

_Creak._

_Click. _

_Creak._

_Click. _

_Creak._

_Click._

_Cre-eak._

_Click._

George wavered a moment, reaching out his right hand to grasp the banister tightly, his knuckles turning white in the effort to steady himself. Fred shifted as though to head up the stairs to help him, but Bill grasped his shoulder and shook his head. George wanted to do this on his own.

_Creak._

The slow progress began again, more slowly than before, as George was finding his own pace to make it. His brothers waited, just in case George changed his mind and asked for help, but the request never came. Just a few steps from the top, Bill's voice rang out.

"Hey, George?" George turned his head, showing he was listening, though not actually looking at them. "It's good to have you back."

"Thanks," he answered, a small smile tugging at his lips that almost made it to his eyes. "It's good to be alive again."

_Click. _

_Creak._

_Click. _

_Creak._

The door opened and closed, and George was out of sight.

* * *

_The darkness was oppressive, squeezing him from all sides, slowing his movement, as though the very air had thickened, filling his mouth and throat, choking him. He tried to thrash, to push it away, but formless, it pressed harder, holding him down, falling, falling._

_No scream._

_No breath._

_No sound but the low laugh._

_Red eyes flashed in the darkness. Glowing. Piercing. Stabbing._

_No._

_No!_

_NO!_

George's eyes flew open, hands flying forward to ward off the fear, but there was nothing there: only the faded canopy hanging above him. He pulled his hands closer, wrapping his arms around himself, attempting to steady himself. Keeping his eyes wide open, he sucked in deep breaths, concentrating on each exhalation, trying to clear the nightmare from his head.

It wasn't working, and suddenly George didn't want to be alone anymore. He slid off the bed, reaching for the nightstand to steady himself to reach his cane, but missed, dropping to the floor with a loud thumb as soon as his left leg crumpled under his weight.

Damn it!

His leg was killing him, and any attempt to stand was thwarted by the shooting pain. He knocked his head back against the bed, biting his bottom lip in frustration before dropping his head in his hands.

He could hear someone running up the stairs and knew before the door was thrown open that it was Fred.

"What happened?" He was next to him on the floor, but George didn't look up at him.

"My hand slipped and I fell."

"You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Need help up?"

"No, I just want to sit here a minute." He let his hand drop and looked up, finding that Fred was not hovering as he had supposed, but was sitting on the floor beside him, his back against the bed.

"You okay now?"

Annoyed, George made to answer, but was stopped by Fred's hand.

"And don't say you're fine. You were shaking when I got in here, like something scared the hell out of you. It's okay if you don't want to talk about it, but don't lie to me and say you're fine."

George hesitated in answering this time. He couldn't help it. He'd spent the last few weeks dodging people's questions about himself, trying not to worry them by letting them too close to his pain, that he hadn't realized what it was doing to them- to Fred.

With a deep sigh, George leaned forward, attempting to massage some of the pain out of his lower thigh and knee. Fred watched him, he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing, not even offering to help.

"It was a nightmare," George said slowly. "Just a regular nightmare like anyone could have. It just freaked me out a little, and when I tried to come downstairs, I missed the nightstand and fell."

"What was the nightmare?"

"_That_ I don't want to talk about." He was trying all he could to forget it. He most certainly did not want to discuss it. Thankfully, Fred seemed to understand.

"How's your leg?"

"Hurt's like hell."

"Need anything?"

"I'm f-." Fred looked at him now, and the word froze on George's tongue. "A cup of tea," he amended. "Go down and start some tea. I'll be down in a minute."

Fred stared hard at him for a minute, as though trying to gauge whether or not he was being truthful, but finally relented. He pushed himself to his feet and headed to the door, pausing only to roll George's cane toward him with the tip of his foot. Then, he was out the door.

George leaned his head back against the bed once more and stared at the ceiling. Draco had warned him to stop pushing his family away, and now it seemed he was right. He hadn't realized how bad he had let it get. Even when he overheard Ron and Harry's argument in the hallway, he hadn't realized. Not until he saw that look in Fred's eyes- that look that challenged him to lie again about how he was.

He had never seen that look before, but then, before waking up in the hospital all those weeks ago, he had never really lied to Fred before. And since then, it felt like it had been nonstop.

* * *

Fred sat at the table in the kitchen, his hands wrapped around a cup of tea. Harry and Bill had left just an hour ago, after making sure everything George would need was in place, leaving Fred alone when he had heard the bang from upstairs. He'd been worried about George, as he had been since hearing he was still alive, but finding him shaking on the floor had been too much. He could sense the annoyance in his twin at his hovering, so he had backed off in the hope that he would open up just a little.

And he did.

Just a little.

It was progress, wasn't it?

Yet, it had been nearly twenty minutes since he had left George, and he had yet to appear in the kitchen as he said he would.

Fred sipped his tea, using the movement as an excuse not to go back upstairs and see what was keeping him. He said he would be down. He had to trust George.

Even if George did not trust him.

This was a completely new experience for Fred. He was used to a dubious nature from others. Afterall, he and George had spent most of their lives pranking others, but for his own twin not to completely trust him- it bothered Fred. And it only bothered him more every time George shrugged off the hand on his shoulder or refused to tell a simple truth, like how he was feeling.

Damn it.

He was on his feet, ready to go back upstairs when he heard it: the distinct pattern of George coming down the stairs with his cane. With a relieved sigh, Fred poured another cup of tea and refilled his own, bringing both back to the table to wait for his brother. His ears followed the trek down each step, then across the foyer until the door to the kitchen swung open and George was suddenly there, sitting across from him, a hot cup of tea in his hands.

They both sipped in silence.

Again.

And again.

And again.

"So, I was thinking I might like to go to the shop."

"Are you sure you're up for that?"

"Not today, but soon. I want to see what you did with it."

"You don't trust me?"

Both of them fell silent again at the question, identical reactions, though for different reasons.

"I do," George said slowly. "I'm just curious. Did you change it at all?"

"Almost everything. We're in the old Potions and Pot Wicks building at the other end Diagon Alley."

"You didn't rebuild?"

Well, there goes idle chitchat.

"Would you have?" Fred couldn't bring himself to look at his brother. "Honestly, George, I didn't even want to reopen at all. I was-." He glanced up at George, unsure whether or not to continue, but his twin nodded for him to. " I was a mess after your funeral. I think the others were afraid for a while to leave me alone. I didn't even want to think about the shop. Chris and Harry finally talked me into reopening. They thought I needed something to do."

George nodded, contemplative.

"And did it give you something to do?"

"I'm not there very much. I hired some employees. When I go home, I usually apparate straight into my flat." A sip of tea. "We haven't released a new product since- well, it was the Man-Eating Mouse Trap."

Again, George nodded. It had been the last release before his attack.

"Well, that gives me something to do," George said cheerily. "I'm sure we can bring the product line up to date within a few months. We can start on ideas, and once I get a wand, we can do some prototypes."

Fred stared at his brother, wondering at the complete turnaround in him since they had been upstairs. Was this new attitude a byproduct of finally getting back to his life? Was he determined to be himself again? Or would this prove to be just another façade?

Fred grinned at his brother, but in the back of his mind he dreaded the disappointment of this short-lived return to normalcy.

AN: Just wanted to let everyone know that work is becoming a little hectic, and I haven't had much time to write. I AM still working on this, even if the updates are coming a little sporadically. I've had this story in my head since right after book 6 came out, and I've been working on it too long not to finish it, so fear not if I go a few weeks without updating! It will be completed!


	13. Chapter 13

AN: Sorry. I know I haven't updated in a REALLY long time. In the last year, I've moved to a new state, started a new job, worked on updated my professional credentials, and started working on my Masters. Do I need to explain further why I haven't had time to write? The good news is, I have about 3 chapters in the works. Don't expect them this weekend, but they should all be up by the end of May. At least, that's my goal.

Fred bit into his sandwich, pretending not to notice as George merely tore the bread of his own apart, popping a piece into his mouth if he felt his brother's eyes on him. Finally, after the meal had been completely decimated, Fred had to speak up.

"Not hungry?"

"Not really."

Containing his sigh, Fred lifted the plate from the table and took it to the sink. The conversation from earlier had tapered off, and what little openness George had displayed had slowly dissipated. He hadn't completely closed himself off again, but he was quiet, answering questions with as few words as possible. It was as if his personality, which had resurfaced for just an hour or two, had disappeared again, leaving behind the shell that had been his brother.

A thump echoed through the hallway, followed by a swear, several more loud thumps, and the high-pitched wail of Matron Black. Fred rolled his eyes. He was going to get rid of that woman if he had to burn up the house to do it. He honestly didn't think Harry would mind all _that_ much.

He moved toward the door, intent on shutting the woman up, but hesitated. George's hands covered his ears, his eyes squeezed shut as a litany of swears and insults were hurled into the house.

"George?" He didn't seem to hear to Fred as he hurried over to him, laying a hand on his shoulder, but taking it away quickly at the flinch. "George?"

The screaming stopped as quickly as it had started. George, however, did not move, though he seemed to struggle to control his breathing.

"George?" His eyes were twitching back and forth, as though he was dreaming or watching a very quick Pog game just inches from his nose. Regardless of whatever it was, Fred knew instinctively that it was not good.

"Tonks, how, in nine years, have you become unable to avoid the umbrella stand?" a voice asked from the other side of the door. It was Remus and Tonks.

"George? George, it was just Remus and Tonks," he pointed out calmly. "They just came in. See?"

The door had opened and the former professor and diminutive Auror were standing it the room, looking curiously at the twins. George had still not moved.

"What's wrong?" Tonks asked, her voice just a touch too loud for the whispered words Fred had been using.

"I don't-"

"I'm fine." George's voice cracked and all eyes fell on him and he lowered his shaking hands from his ears. "J-just a m-memory." Fred leaned over to look catch his eyes, but George quickly swept a forearm across them. He had started crying.

"What was it?"

"Nothing," came the terse answer.

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Do you want-?"

"I'm _fine._"

Fred's questions stopped instantly. George had shut down again. He was _fine _again, though unwilling to look Fred in the eyes. He hoped desperately that it was because he had been crying, and not because he knew he'd be caught in the lie they both knew he was telling.

A glass of sparkling orange liquid was set on the table before him, and George looked up at Remus, who set a second glass in front of Fred.

"You should drink something. It'll help calm you."

"I can't drink that." George's voice was hollow again, though his eyes looked sadly at the drink.

"It's just pumpkin juice," Remus explained, "to help calm you."

"It's too sweet," Fred explained. "His stomach can't handle it yet." Fred let the reason why hang in the air, knowing Remus was too smart not to pick it up. After months of having almost nothing in his stomach, George could only really keep down more neutral foods: bland soups; light sandwiches; unseasoned vegetables, depending on what they were.

"I'm sorry. How about some water, then?"

George nodded.

Remus pointed his wand at the glass, but surprisingly, George did not flinch this time. His eyes, Fred noticed, were closed. He must have done so when Remus reached into his robes.

"There you go."

Those haunted hazel eyes opened and a shaky hand reached out for the glass. Fred reached out for his own glass as juice, but his eyes were on his brother as he drank.

He was trying, and Fred was proud of him for that. George was attempting to cope with being in the world again, and if he had to close his eyes when someone pointed a wand in his general direction, well, for now that would have to work. At least he was calming down.

"You are actually the reason Tonks and I came early to the meeting today, George," Remus continued as he and Tonks took a seat across from him. "We wanted to see how you are before everyone starts showing up."

"There's a meeting?"

"Oh, it's just a small one," Tonks piped up. "Draco found some scrolls we're trying to translate."

"Oh." He took a breath. "Who's coming?"

"Just us and Hermione, Bill, Snape, Harry, and-."

"And Maggie," Remus supplied. "You might remember her. She was a year younger than you. Chris's little sister."

"When did _she_ join?" Fred asked. He couldn't remember being at a meeting with her there.

"A few weeks ago," Remus answered evenly. "You weren't around for all that." No, Fred had been at the hospital during that time. He's practically forgotten that the Order had continued to operate while his family had been turned on its ear. "There was a bit of a row over it. Chris didn't want her to join."

"I don't remember her," George piped up, and Fred realized he had been trying all this time to do just that.

"Do you remember sixth year when we set up the feather bomb for Alden before the Ravenclaw match, but it hit someone else?" Fred couldn't help smiling when he noticed the corner of George's mouth twitch up.

"Yeah. Flitwick was livid."

"Yeah. Well, Maggie Alden was the one it hit."

That moment, remembering the prank gone wrong, was the closest Fred had seen George to being the brother he had lost, so he reveled in the moment in hopes that his brother would rise to the occasion as well.

"It started out as an Ever-Stick bomb," he explained to Tonks, whose eyes seemed to light up. "But McGonagall had warned us about destroying school property again, so George had this brilliant idea to cluster an expanding nest of feathers around the core, so when it exploded, she was completed doused in the Ever Stick with thousands of red and gold feathers falling on her. It was masterful!"

He glanced over at his brother, but George was not smiling anymore.

"Why didn't he want her to join?" he asked. "I thought Chris believed in the Order."

"He does," Remus answered. "I think it was a safety issue. His father was killed a few years ago. His mother and sister are all he has left."

George nodded.

"I do remember her now. We went to the funeral, Fred and I. It wasn't long after Charlie. She was the one who stayed next to his mum, I think."

Silence pervaded the kitchen as George stared down at his half-empty glass of water.

"So, George, how are you doing now? You're looking much better than you did in the hospital."

"I'm fi-." George's eyes flicked to Fred. "I'm doing better. Most of my wounds are healed, and my Healer is optimistic about my leg." He motioned toward his cane, hanging off the edge of the table."

"Your stomach is still a little unsettled, though?" Remus supplied.

"Yeah. Hopefully I can start eating stuff that has real taste in a few weeks, so basically Fred's cooking will suffice until then."

Fred on was the verge of indignancy until he realized George had made a joke. He couldn't help but smile.

"That's good," Remus answered. "I'm glad to hear you're doing better." His smile, Fred noticed, was a little forced, like his own. Fred knew for a fact that George was leaving out quite a lot, and Remus seemed to suspect it.

"Are you sleeping at all?" Tonks asked, in her sweet but slightly insensitive way. "You look like tired."

Remus's hand reached out automatically in a tender, but warning manner, to her fingers. Her eyes widened. Perhaps this warning was all she needed.

"Wotcher, George. I didn't mean-."

"A little," George answered, glancing again at Fred. "But I've turned into a bit of a light sleeper." He faltered. "I have a Dreamless Sleep potion I take. It helps."

"That's good, George. We're really happy to have you back." Remus smiled fondly in that way he often did when he spoke of his old friends or his time teaching, and Fred knew it was genuine. "And that you're doing so well."

An alarm went off in Remus's robes, and he dug through his pocket until he found his watch to turn off the soft whistle.

"It's six-thirty. The rest of the group should be here soon." As if on cue, the door to the kitchen opened and a black bat with a pale face appeared, swinging his cloak from his shoulders and folding it on the back of his chair. Snape looked around the table, his eyes stopping momentarily on George before moving on.

"Where is everyone?"

"They're coming, Severus. They should be here any moment."

He nodded, then focused on George again.

"Weasley, how is your treatment?"

"F-f-fine." Everyone in the room seemed to frown at the stutter. Snape glanced at him, then down at his black cloak and robes.

"I see."

"I th-think I'll go to the l-library and w-work for a wh-while." He forced out, reaching for his cane and pushing himself heavily from his chair. "On those p-p-p-."

"The products we talked about?" George nodded. "Do you want me to help you?

"I'm f-fine." He was already making his way across the kitchen, sweeping a wide arc around Snape.

Fred noticed a distinct frown on Snape's face as he watched George go.

He was definitely not fine.

* * *

"0pxwsl, 0pxwsl." Maggie pushed her glasses back up on her nose as she flipped through her lexicon dictionary for Aramaic. The language had been dead for generations, making the translations even more difficult. Not impossible, but still difficult. Finding the right page, she skimmed her finger down the list of words and sighed.

Bill looked up from his own portion of the text.

"What's wrong?"

"Destruction," she answered. "Everything in these scrolls is related to destruction in some way. Every language in here is describing it, but none of them tell what or how."

"We've barely made a dent in these," Hermione offered. "The answer has to be in here somewhere."

Frustrated, Maggie scrubbed a hand over her face. She'd been working with the Order for three weeks, expecting to have found something fairly quickly. All she had done was find enough information to make her lose hope. Whatever You-Know-Who had planned, she was no closer to finding an answer.

_The people—the flame of blue killed them. Wind of destruction blew over the city. And those who fell not down were cast into a fiery furnace._

The translation sounded oddly familiar. In fact, she was sure she had read it before somewhere. Standing, Maggie began rifling through the pile of books on the table, turning spines to read the titles, flipping through pages to try and discover the familiar language of this text.

Then it hit her.

"The Bible."

"What?" Hermione looked up again.

"The Bible. Do we have a copy here?"

Now Snape's attention was drawn. He looked up from his own portion: a graphic description of a village's destruction in ancient Greek. He didn't say anything, but watched the others carefully.

"I don't know," Hermione answered. "I can't imagine the Black family would have a copy of it here."

"Which part?" Snape finally asked.

"Old Testament," she answered. "Definitely Old Testament. Half of it was originally in Aramaic and it deals with wrath of God. I think this line came from it."

Surprisingly, Snape motioned for the script to be passed down to him. He turned it so he could read it, then frowned.

"I see. This phrase, "fiery furnace," is from the Book of Daniel." He passed the paper back. "The Apocalyptic Prophecies, I believe."

Maggie was so focused on the text and Snape's words, that she didn't notice the looks of surprise the rest of the table was sending to the Potions Master, who steadfastly ignored them.

"How did you know that?" Remus asked.

"Alden, check the library," Snape continued. "I believe there is an old copy in there- at least of the early books."

"Severus?"

"It's one of the few texts written in several ancient languages, Lupin. It's a common text for translative lexicon. _Surely_, you know _that_ much."

Maggie missed the rest of the argument to follow. She was already heading up the stairs, intent on finding that book. If this phrase came directly from the text, it could be the key to a full translation.

She pushed the door open and her forward motion stopped. The library was uncharacteristically brightly lit, and someone else was in here, bent over a table with several sheets of paper spread around him. She hadn't expected anyone to be up here. She could only see the top of his head and his lanky frame, but she recognized Ron's form.

"Sorry, Ron. I didn't mean to disturb-."

But the face that looked up at her was not Ron. It was a ghost, pale and sunken and scarred. The first name that came to mind was Fred, but she had seen him when she came in. This wasn't Fred. This must be-.

"I'm not Ron."

"No, I'm sorry. George, right?"

"Yeah." His attention went back down to his work.

Barely sparing him another glance, Maggie went to the shelf and began combing it, looking for the desired text. Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be any real order to the books. This could take all night. Systematically, she moved from shelf to shelf, her eyes raking over the spines.

"What are you looking for?"

"A book," she answered, stepping to the next shelf.

"Genius," the voice answered. She heard the scuff of a chair and the sound of movement, followed by the rhythmic tonk of wood on the carpeted floor.

"Which book?" he asked, standing a few feet away, his eyes on the books.

"You don't have to help me."

"You're distracting," he answered without looking at her. "You were talking to yourself."

"Well, I'm sorry," she answered. "I didn't mean to disrupt you." She knew her tone had taken an acidic tone, but she didn't try to hide it. Apparently, George Weasley hadn't changed at all since school.

"Besides," he continued, "I assume you want it to translate those scrolls. The sooner you do, the sooner we can stop Him."

She glanced over at him, surprised at his seriousness. But then again, he had been a prisoner for almost a year. Of course he'd want to stop him.

"The Bible."

"What?"

"The Bible. It's a book that contains scripture about-."

"I know what the Bible is. I'm not stupid." He focused on the shelves now, reading the spines. "I just wasn't expecting that."

They looked in silence for several minutes, though George glanced over at her a few times when she realized she was whispering to herself again. Finally, it was found.

"Over here," he called, pointing to a shelf well above his head. "I can't get it, but it's right there. Top shelf, third from the right."

She hurried over and found that he was correct. The Black household actually had a copy of the Bible in it. She pulled her wand from her robes, and in seconds, it was in her hands.

"It actually looks worn," she commented, turning the leather tome over in her hands.

"People think it has some kind of power. I wouldn't be surprised if the Blacks were trying to find a way to harness it." He moved away, back toward his table.

"Professor Snape said it was used in translation."

"That too, I guess."

She wanted to say something more, to thank him, but he was bent over his papers again, completely ignoring her.

The kitchen was a little fuller when she entered. Harry and Fred Weasley had returned from wherever they had gone together, and were now leaning over the table, speaking quietly with the other members of the Order. They stopped talking when she opened the door, making Maggie feel instantly uncomfortable. Though she knew it was unlikely, that it was just a throw-back of her self-consciousness in school, she couldn't help but feel they were talking about her.

"Did you find it?" Hermione called.

"Yes. Well, George did."

"George is helping you?" Fred asked, a frown set on his face.

"No," she explained quickly. "He was in the library. He just helped me find this book, that's all."

"I'm surprised he's still up," he muttered as he left the kitchen, presumably to find his brother.

Those sitting around the table seemed to share a look between them. Not quite understanding, Maggie merely hugged the book to her chest.

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No, you're fine, Maggie," Harry answered her, though his eyes were following the sound of Fred making his way up the stairs. "Just a disagreement between brothers."

"Oh."

Fred opened the library door slowly, so as not to frighten his brother.

"Looking for another book?" George asked without looking up.

"Just seeing how you're doing."

George did look up now and, seeing Fred, began shuffling his papers. Fred couldn't help but notice that he took one sheet and folded it, slipping it into his pocket.

"George?"

"You don't have to check up on me, Fred. I'm a big kid."

"I'm not." He stepped closer, but George froze, like an animal cornered. "Maggie said you were still up, so I thought I'd come and see how your product ideas are coming."

George seemed to be weighing his words, as though trying to assess whether or not Fred was lying. Amazing how much of that was happening lately.

"They're coming slowly, but I have a few ideas that might be workable."

"Can I take a look?"

Slowly, George pushed himself to his feet, reclaiming the cane hanging off the edge of the desk. He tapped the sheaf of papers.

"Be my guest. Let me know what you think in the morning."

"You going to bed already?"

"Long day," George answered. "And I need my beauty sleep." He smiled a little at his own little joke, prompting Fred to grin in response.

"G'night."

George's only response was a wave over his shoulder.


	14. Chapter 14

AN: I've been super busy with all those things listed with the last chapter, especially my Master's program. With teaching and this, it's like having 2 full-time jobs. I still have another year left, so like I said before, updates will be few and far between for a while. Sorry about it, but real life has to take precedence.

Slowly, Fred became aware that he was not asleep anymore, though his eyes were still closed. He didn't want to open them. He was still so tired and wanted to go back to sleep, and he knew that if he opened them fully, that would never happen.

So he lay there, in the darkness behind his eyelids, trying to shut his brain down from trying to figure out what had woken him up.

Maybe something from an unremembered dream?

He shifted, rolling to his side and pulled his blanket tighter around himself.

A muffled whimper.

Did Crookshanks kill something?

No, his mind told him. Crookshanks wasn't even here. There was no one here but him and-

A second whimper, this one more desperate than the first.

Fred reached out and held open the curtains of his bed just enough to confirm where the sound was coming from, but there was no whimper this time. It was a cry, low and soft, but still pained and alone.

He stumbled out of bed, nearly tangling in the curtains in his haste to reach his brother's side.

In the dim light of the low-burning candle on the side table, shadows danced over George's face, contorted by pain and terror. His bed clothes were twisted around his body, evidence of his nightmare-induced thrashing, revealing the old scars and injuries he was always so careful to keep concealed (Fred's eyes took in the wide scar peeking out on his clavicle, the burn across his side.), while his hands clawed their way into the heavy blankets pushed down near his hips.

He was frozen, unsure what to do, exactly.

Another cry, this one louder, echoing in the silence of the gloom.

This time he did act, reaching forward and shaking George's shoulder, but the reaction was not what he had expected. George's eyes snapped open and he flew across the mattress, as though trying to shove himself as far away from Fred as possible. Instinctively, Fred's hand tightened on George's pajamas, trying to stop him from flying off the edge of the bed, but this only seemed to worsen the situation. Hands flew at him, and a cry that would probably wake Harry a floor up tore through his throat as George struggled to get away, finally flinging himself off the bed, tumbling the bedside table over with a mighty crash.

"George!" Fred flew across the bed and found him on the floor, clutching at his pajamas and breathing heavily. He reached out to his brother.

"Don't touch me!" The voice was low, gutteral, almost animalistic in its ferocity.

"George?" Fred whispered it this time, his hand frozen in air, not quite reaching out, but not completely pulled back either.

Silence, but for George's breathing.

Then the door flew open, and a dangerous figure swept the room with his wand before cold green eyes focused on Fred, then George. The wand lowered; a hand adjusted the round glasses on his nose.

"You guys okay?" Harry's voice was gravelly, as though he had just woken up. He wore his boxer shorts and a ratty T, and his hair stuck out completely on one side. Not quite the forbidding figure he had cut a moment ago when his aura was in danger mode.

"I don't know," Fred answered truthfully. "George?"

He whispered something as he pulled himself upright, slowly lifting himself so his back leaned against the bed, though whatever meaning those words may have held were lost.

"George, you okay?" Harry repeated, his voice a little gruffer than Fred's had been, practically ordering an answer which was understandable.

"I'm fine."

Fred doubted that very much and, meeting Harry's questioning gaze, shrugged and shook his head. He watched as Harry's gaze slid back to George, sharp and observant, then soft and sad. The room was silent. Fred and Harry simply watched George, who still had not yet looked up at them. Instead, he was staring resolutely at the floor, one hand tightly gripping his hair while the other still rubbed absently above his knee.

"Fred?" Harry's voice startled him. "Would you mind putting on some water for tea?"

"Huh?"

"Tea, Fred," Harry said quietly. "Please?"

Fred shifted is attention back to his brother.

"George, you want some tea?"

Fred didn't think he was going to answer, then very slowly, he nodded without lifting his eyes from the floor.

"Yeah. Okay, I'll make some tea." He backed out of the room, completely aware that whatever was going on in George's head, he wasn't the one needed. He never seemed to be, though he didn't understand why.

How could things change so much over the course of a year? In truth, Fred knew, logically, that this distance was inevitable, considering what George had been through.

But why is it that everyone but him knew how to talk to George?

Fred was downstairs for twenty minutes, and the tea was cooling in cups on the table when he decided enough time had passed for him to venture back upstairs. He found Harry sitting on the floor next to George, and though George was still looking at the floor, he was at least speaking.

"-I thought I was going to go insane after he died, Harry. Until Draco found me, I thought I was going to lose my mind in there."

Fred stopped in his tracks. He could hear George's voice, but if he stepped in to the room, he might stop talking, and Merlin knew he needed to talk.

"What do you want me to do?"

"He had a daughter, two grandkids. I want to find them for him- to let them know he was still alive."

They both fell silent for a moment. Then, Harry spoke up, his voice so soft, Fred could barely hear him.

"George, it's quite possible they thought Rupert was dead the entire time he was in that dungeon. It could just hurt them more to know that he was alive, and going through hell, only to die alone in a little cell."

"He wasn't alone." George's voice cracked a little. "I never saw him, but he was never alone."

"I know, George. I understand that, but my concern still stands."

Again, silence punctuated the room.

"If it were me, do you think Fred would have wanted to know?"

Yes.

"I don't know."

"Yes." Fred leaned casually in the doorway, and though George didn't look up at him, Harry did. "Of course I'd want to know, George."

"Why?"

"Comfort. Closure. Just a need to know."

"Rather than believing the pain was limited by death, you would want to hear that _someone _had really been in prison, in the… worst conditions… and died like that?"

"I would," Fred answered, recognizing the distance George was suddenly putting between himself and the scenario. "What right would I have to live in that delusion of peace, just to make myself feel better? Why shouldn't I at least understand what _that person_ went through?"

A chill seemed to run down George's spine. Then, he turned toward Fred, and from Harry's face, this was the first time he's made eye contact with either of them that night, and smiled.

"Is the tea ready?"

"Yeah, it's downstairs."

George nodded and started the slow process of picking himself off the floor.

* * *

Over the course of the next days, George filled his days with trying to reacquaint himself to life outside of a cell or a hospital room. He read newspapers and listened to meetings, though whenever discussion strayed near his experiences, he became quieter than ever, seeming to close up within himself, trapped in the private hell that was his memories. From this, his friends tried to shield him, and were successful most of the time, though many mornings, he found himself awakened before dawn by his brother, who himself was tormented by George's screams as he dreamed.

It was for this reason that George desperately wanted to visit Diagon Alley and finally replace his lost wand. He felt helpless without it, both unable to protect himself and unable to function as a proper wizard. A wand would make him feel whole again.

But he could barely stand staying in the kitchen if members of the Order were sitting on all sides of him. His previous position in the middle of any gathering now terrified him. Generally, if everyone was meeting, he would make his way upstairs or into the library, claiming exhaustion and punctuating it by forcing a tired smile.

Fred saw through it. George knew he did, but he said nothing. He merely nodded and offered up a small smile of support. It both heartened and saddened George. Over the course of days, George had opened up to his brother a little, though he still never spoke of his experiences in detail. If he became lost in those nightmares, he would simply chalk it up to memories, and Fred accepted it, knowing what it took out of him to admit even that.

But he wondered. Fred couldn't help it. He understood why George flinched when a wand was swished a little too enthusiastically or why he cringed if Snape entered the meeting in his black robes. Those weren't hard to figure out. He could even understand why George went silent when laughter became too loud. He didn't _know_, but he could guess.

But why did he nearly jump out of his seat if he heard others whispering? Or his breath catch at the sight of Remus's pocketwatch? Or why, on certain mornings when he had to awaken his twin, George pushed away from him in the semi-darkness, as though terrified of a face he had known his entire life?

It was for this reason that Fred panicked a little anytime George seemed to be having any kind of reaction. It happened the very morning he had arranged to take him to replace his wand. Unable to find him in his usual haunts, the kitchen, his bedroom, or the library, Fred nearly tore the house apart looking for him. And as his panic escalated, Harry, too, joined in the hunt. Desperate, he tore into the kitchen for what seemed the dozenth time, this time intent on flooing everyone he knew to see if they had seen the missing twin. As he spun to find the Floo Powder, he spied a lone figure outside.

George stood motionless in the small, overgrown garden in the backyard, seemingly senseless to everything around him. His back was to Fred, making it impossible to tell what was going on, but the absolute stillness and the length of his disappearance made the brother uneasy.

Was this anther fit of confusion? Did George know where he was? Or was he lost again?

"Fred, wait."

He hadn't even realized his hand was on the door until Harry's voice stopped him. He glanced at him, then back to his brother to find George holding his hands out into the sun, open-fingered, as though tasting the warmth, then clench them into fists and pull them in.

"I've seen enough men come out of the darkness," Harry said softly, "only wanting to feel the sun and know it's real."

Fred smiled as he watched his brother, wondering if Harry had any idea how profound he sounded at the moment.

The kitchen door opened behind them.

"Harry? Did you find-?" Hermione's voice was coming from the Floo network, but she trailed off upon seeing the two men staring out the window. Apparently, Harry had already tried to contact Ron. "Oh, Merlin. What's wrong?"

Harry glanced motioned her through, and a moment later, she too was looking out the window.

"What's he doing?" she asked, standing next to Harry, but before either of the men could answer, her hand lightly covered her mouth and a soft "Oh," escaped.

Fred opened the door. George didn't notice him, or at least didn't acknowledge him until they were side by side. A glance revealed tears in his eyes.

"I didn't think it was possible to really forget what the sun feels like," he said in what was probably his most honest and unguarded moment since the escape. "I forgot."

Fred had no idea what to say, what to do. An unwanted touch or the wrong words would break the spell that seemed to hold his brother so lovingly and so warmly, but in this moment, Fred had been invited in. It was a place he could only vaguely understand, but it was an invitation into George's experience, however small or mundane.

He lifted his hand as he'd seen George do to try and feel it as George had.

"It's warm," he said, feeling the fool even as he did so. George was experiencing something he was not. Fred closed his eyes, trying to imagine what it had been like: the darkness, the cold.

The loneliness.

A shiver ran down his spine, and Fred clenched his hands shut as he opened his eyes.

George was watching him. The sadness had not quite left him yet.

Fred had no idea what to say. Silence permeated the air, disturbed only by the distant call of a bird.

"Harry and Hermione are here," George said finally, the spell broken. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine. Harry was going to come with us to Diagon Alley for a little while. And Hermione just stopped by before work."

He nodded.

"We should go inside," he said. "Before they think I'm crazy."

"Yeah," Fred agreed without really thinking about what he was agreeing to. His mind was still on the darkness.

The grimness returned to George's features, unnoticed by his twin. In a moment, he was gone, returning to the house.

Fred remained behind. He didn't quite want to leave this yet. It seemed there was something profound here he hadn't quite grasped, but he didn't want it to escape him. A slight breeze blew, but he remained still, his eyes closed again, trying to understand exactly what had happened here, but knowing deep down that it was impossible.

It seemed the moment had widened the gulf between them.

"Hey, Fred? You ready?"

It was Harry, who called to him from the kitchen. Unable to grasp that elusive meaning, Fred admitted defeat and headed back inside.

"Professor Weasley?"

Ron turned back to his emptying classroom to find Thomas Eliot, a third year Hufflepuff standing behind him. He was a nice kid, average and forgettable in almost every way. Truthfully, he had only made an impression after his father, an Auror, had been killed during the kid's first year. After that, he had latched onto Ron as a kind of big brother.

"Yeah, Thomas? Something wrong?"

"No, sir. I just- It's good to have you back."

Ron couldn't help but smile.

"Thanks." The boy didn't move, didn't scamper off to his classmates, so Ron waited.

"So, George Weasley, the man they found in the prison- he owns the joke shop in Diagon Alley, doesn't he?"

"Yes, with Fred, his twin."

He squirmed just a little, and Ron wished he's just get on with what he wanted to say. He needed to get to a meeting.

"I heard some people say that he's your brother, that that's why you've been gone."

"He is. George and Fred are two years older than me."

"Is he okay?"

Ron hesitated before answering. That was the big question, wasn't it? If any close friends had asked, if Minerva had wanted to know, the answer would have been vastly different, revealing much more about George (and himself) than he would ever reveal to a student, and such a young one at that.

"Yeah, Thomas. He's going to be fine."

"Good." The word came out as a held breath. "The papers said he was supposed to be dead, so I'm glad you got him back and he's okay." He looked sad and thoughtful for a moment, but before Ron could say anything, he announced he would be late for dinner and ran from the room.

Ron watched him go, wondering if the hope created from this rescue would, in fact, hurt others in the end.


End file.
